Origins_Revolution

by Mark Henrikson

  “If all the British forces were in front of us, we would indeed be outnumbered, and I make it a point to never fight against such heavy odds,” Valnor instructed with an eager twinkle in his eye. “Normally I’d suggest a series of maneuvers to divide the enemy’s strength and allow us to strike the weaker part of the enemy and crush it. That way our smaller army may annihilate their large one in manageable sized engagements.”

  Valnor allowed a pregnant pause to linger in the tent before reaching his real point. “As luck would have it, the British have already done the maneuvering for us; their army stands divided. We have 20,000 men here in New Jersey. General Jean-Baptiste Rochambeau’s army will be arriving from France shortly, as will Admiral de Grasse’s fleet from the West Indies.”

  “General Clinton must not be aware of these facts, or he would never have split his forces,” Valnor elaborated further. “We can mass our combined armies and strike north at New York, or south at Yorktown. Either way, we will be facing half their force rather than its entirety. With numbers and the element of surprise, we can win against those odds.”

  Valnor spoke no more. He looked around the tent and saw several heads nodding in agreement, but the most important one remained motionless. General Washington stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes directed at the ground in heavy contemplation.

  After several silent seconds, the general raised his head to reveal a widening smile. “The forces of our French allies will not go undetected for much longer. Assailing New York will require great preparation ahead of time. We’ll need to set to work immediately.”

  “British scouts will see those preparations ahead of time,” a colonel pointed out. “They will know we’re coming.”

  “That could work to our advantage as well,” Valnor countered as he leaned in to elaborate on his plan.

  **********

  “Christ almighty, General Washington has spared no expense in preparing for this attack,” Paul said to Valnor as they overlooked the finishing efforts on yet another bridge from a nearby hilltop.

  “You can’t just wheel a Big Bertha cannon across any bridge. It needs reinforcing to handle that much weight. Ninety percent of warfare is about logistics; getting the army there and making sure it has enough supplies,” Valnor instructed as a column of colonial soldiers marched past behind them.

  “I understand the importance, but it also gives our enemy an unmistakable clue as to our plans doesn’t it?” Paul asked before turning around and pointing to several columns of smoke rising from the forest behind them. “If preparing the bridges didn’t tip off the British scouts to our plans, then those new bread ovens certainly did.”

  “Not much getting around that I’m afraid. You can’t have an amassing body of soldiers without a way to feed them, and that means bread ovens. If the British scouts don’t spot the rising smoke, then they’ll no doubt smell the loaves baking,” Valnor replied before drawing a deep breath through his nostrils to relish the sweat aroma in the air.

  “I don’t get it, though. If we’re taking New York soon, then we won’t need the ovens. We’ll be in the city with plenty of ways to feed the army, which means the ovens are unnecessary. We’re giving away our position for no real reason,” Paul observed.

  “It’s a little obvious when you stop to think about it, isn’t it?”

  The question made Paul look at Valnor with sudden alarm. “Yes, too obvious now that I think on it. This is another one of your deceptions. New York isn’t the target is it?”

  “No,” Valnor answered and backed it up with a subtle shake of his head. “We’re just here to make the British think that New York is our target. The fact that you just now caught on to that fact lets me know that we did a good job of it.”

  Paul looked toward one of the rising towers of smoke and observed that there were only empty tents near the oven. His eyes then drifted over to the column of soldiers marching from one clearing to the next. “Those are the same men marching as before. They are showing themselves all over the area to pretend that the entire army is here drilling.”

  “Also part of the deception,” Valnor confirmed.

  The sudden realization made Paul breathe a frustrated sigh and shake his head. “I’m not cut out for this. The way you go about things, the lies and deceptions. I can’t do it.”

  “We’ve gone over this. All warfare is based on deception. To do otherwise is to do a grave disservice to our men and our cause,” Valnor challenged.

  “It’s not just warfare, it’s everything you do. Back home in the law office you lie to people and deceive them every day. You inflate damage claims, you pretend the merits of a case are much stronger than they really are, or you suppress evidence if it hurts your case rather than pursuing the truth,” Paul accused while looking like he just released ten years of pent-up revulsion.

  “Lawyers work for their clients, not the truth.”

  “That’s why I don’t want to practice law,” Paul admitted. “I wasn’t going to bring this up until the end of the war, but now it’s out. I don’t want to be a lawyer, and I don’t want to work in your office anymore. The entire profession offends me.”

  Valnor’s head snapped back out of surprise more than him taking offense. “That is perfectly fine, what will you do then?”

  “I like working with my hands, being an artist.”

  “That’s well and good for a hobby, Paul, but it won’t pay the bills I’m afraid.”

  “I already have my first commissioned work lined up.”

  “Oh?” Valnor began, but cut his line of questioning short when he spotted a cluster of red coats moving about the crest of a distant hilltop. “We’ll have to get into this later. It seems you’re not the only one who suspects a deception.”

  Valnor raised a spyglass to his eye for a closer look. What he saw caused him to draw his breath and hold it. Every one of the redcoats wore a hat with gold trim signifying an officer. Even if he did not recognize the man on sight, the tassels on his shoulders gave away the presence of General Henry Clinton himself. It was one thing to taunt the man from afar via letters, it was quite another to see him again in person.

  The general was holding a spyglass of his own and following the pointing arm of a subordinate toward the colonial army’s camp. Valnor pulled his eye away from the spyglass and turned his head to estimate their vantage point. They had a clear view into their deserted camp. Valnor then returned his eye to the magnified view and found the gaggle of officers in a very agitated state. General Clinton was busy shouting and gesturing as if his coat were on fire. “Hmm, it seems we’ve been discovered.”

  “What do we do now?” Paul asked.

  “Tell the engineers and the men marching all around the area to assemble at the camp. We leave for Yorktown in an hour.”

  “Do you think this bought General Washington’s army enough time?” Paul asked.

  “Last I heard they were past Philadelphia and making quick time from there. It’s a foot race now, and we have a big head start,” Valnor answered as he returned his eye to the spyglass.

  On the distant hilltop, he saw General Clinton there with his own spyglass focused on him. Valnor knew in the back of his mind that he should not, but he could not pass up the opportunity. Valnor touched an index finger to his brow and then pointed that finger at the good general to deliver an unmistakable taunt. Henry may have killed him before, but it was now Valnor who had the last laugh.

  Chapter 42: Once Unthinkable, Now a Reality

  “we don’t have much time,” Valnor cautioned General Washington when he arrived in Yorktown. The colonials had managed to push the British forces back into the city and set up cannon positions to the north, but the south remained protected by two earthen fortifications set outside the city walls. “A large British force is on the march from New York now that they know we’re no longer there.”

  “Our miners are digging night and day to reach those forts, but it will still be another three or four days,
” a field engineer reported.

  “Between the city and those forts, there are over a hundred cannons trained on our approach. Any charge above ground will get blasted to pieces,” Washington admitted with a frustrated tap of his fist on the table in front of him. “We have them right where we want them. We could end the war, right here, right now, but I don’t see a way through to do it.”

  “I do,” Valnor announced, recalling that tonight the moon would be a tiny sliver in its waning cycle. “A cannon is only useful if the gunners can see where to fire.”

  “You’re suggesting a nighttime assault?” Washington asked.

  “We’ve gotten this far using the element of surprise, I see no reason to change form now,” Valnor answered followed by a confident wink.

  That night, just before midnight, Valnor addressed a company of 800 soldiers standing in near pitch-black lighting. “Not…a…sound. Understood?”

  A wave of silent nods as opposed to the customary ‘yes, sir’ let Valnor know the men grasped the situation. They had to cross a quarter mile of open terrain. It would be best for all concerned if the British gunners did not know they were there until the last possible moment. “Good, we move on my order.”

  “Begging your pardon, colonel,” a soldier standing nearby whispered. “Aren’t you forgetting to give the order to load weapons?”

  “No, I’m not,” Valnor replied in a matter of fact voice. “Muskets are loud, bayonets are not. I don’t want anyone getting trigger happy.”

  That response drew some wide eyes and shocked looks, but also understanding of their situation. With the rules of engagement established, Valnor drew his saber, pointed it toward the earthen walls rising ten feet above the plains and gave the order, “Move out.”

  There was an unnatural silence to their collective movement. Military formations pounded the ground with footfalls landing in unison to intimidate their enemies. A charge to assail an enemy position also included manly hoots and yells to bolster the courage of those moving into harm’s way, but there was neither in this instance. Even the hum and chirps of insects in the area stopped as the colonials crept their way past.

  Even though Valnor did not share in the mortal jeopardy the men around him faced, he still felt his heart banging against his rib cage so hard he feared the British might actually hear it over his careful footsteps. Decades of planning and his labors to wrest the new world free from the Freemason’s influence culminated in this moment, this oddly silent moment.

  The men sidestepped and climbed over timbers laid in their way before reaching the steeply sloped walls of their target. It was so dark that they could not even see the British sentries pacing atop the wall, but they heard them. Valnor gestured for one man to get down on all fours. Another hunched over at the waist while Valnor stood at his full height. Behind him, another soldier climbed on top of his partner’s shoulders and together they leaned against the dirt wall.

  The collective result was a human set of stairs that allowed colonial soldiers on the ground to step up and over the walls while hardly breaking stride. They managed to set up thirty of these ascending staircase configurations before an astute sentry took notice.

  “Alarm! Alarm! We’re under attack,” the guard bellowed before firing his musket at the attackers below. The muzzle flare illuminated the surrounding area in an orangish glow that revealed the truth of their circumstance. Hundreds of colonials had crossed the killing field and were cresting the walls like a tidal surge washing over a child’s sandcastle.

  Valnor’s shoulders and head ached from the repeated pounding of boots using him as a steppingstone into the fort. From the other side of the wall he heard one organized blast of muskets. The British must have managed to form a firing line. From there, the fighting devolved into random blasts, the clanking of steel on steel, and the screams of men impaled by blades made of that steel. The sounds of battle soon gave way to silence before a colonial shouted from atop the wall, “The fort is ours!”

  “Hazzah,” came a victorious shout from inside, which prompted Valnor and his fellow staircase providers to march around to the rear of the fort. There he found the gates open and two hundred British soldiers throwing down their weapons.

  Ten minutes later, Valnor heard a similar victorious shout rise up from the second fortification that their French allies were tasked with capturing. It seemed the element of surprise worked in their favor as well.

  “Move the prisoners to the rear and bring up our gunner crews,” Valnor ordered. “We just captured enough cannons to reduce that city to a smoldering cinder come morning.”

  It took the crews two hours to arrive, turn the cannons around to face the city, and set their ranges. The result was worth the wait.

  “Fire!” Valnor ordered. In so doing, he turned a pitch-black night into a blinding display that rivaled any sunrise.

  Thirty cannons erupted from his captured fortification, while the French unleashed another fifty. From the north and west, General Washington bombarded the British held city without mercy. Adding to this firestorm, Admiral de Grasse opened fire with his twenty-nine frigates amassed off the shore. All night until morning, the colonials and French pummeled the city as if in competition with one another to see who could inflict the most devastation. All were winners in Valnor’s eye.

  When the first rays of morning light added their glow to the scene, the rhythmic sound of a drum began coming from the direction of Yorktown. The noise took the shape of a teenage drummer boy marching out into the open with a soldier holding a white handkerchief aloft. Behind them strode a portly major looking positively shell-shocked from the morning’s bombardment.

  The cannons soon fell silent, and General Washington rode out with his senior staff to greet the British officer. Valnor took that as his cue to walk out from his captured ramparts and join the discussion.

  “His honorable, General Cornwallis, wishes to discuss your terms of surrender,” the major announced with an unwarranted sense of superiority still about him.

  “These are my terms,” Washington announced in his customary quiet voice. “Your contingent of regulars will be taken and held as prisoners of war and will receive good and fair treatment in our camps. Your officers will be paroled and allowed to return home. Those are my terms.”

  “They are acceptable,” the major replied. “Our men will march out of the city under the traditional honors of war with our flags raised, bayonets fixed, and our band playing an American tune of your choosing as tribute to your victory here today.”

  “No,” General Washington declared with an angry shout. “Your oh so honorable General Cornwallis denied our men surrendering at Charleston that traditional honor; therefore, I shall deny that to you. Your forces will offer surrender with your flags furled and muskets shouldered while your band plays a British tune of his honorable General Cornwallis’ choosing.”

  The harsh words could not have landed harder on the major had they been followed by a flurry of fists. It was a grave insult, but there was no option other than to accept. “We agree to your terms.”

  An hour later, the major returned to the open field with twelve-thousand redcoats proceeding behind him with their weapons shouldered. He offered his sword to General Washington in a show of surrender; apparently, the honorable General Cornwallis was too ‘ill’ to execute the surrender himself. The unthinkable had become a reality.

  **********

  “Sir, we cannot keep this marching pace for much longer,” a captain informed General Henry Clinton as he sat in his saddle inspecting the men as they marched past. “We have covered twenty miles per day for two weeks now. Exhaustion is setting in.”

  “I care not for the men’s exhaustion. If we do not reach Yorktown in time, all may be lost in this war,” Henry declared with more anger in his voice than he intended.

  That mocking salute he saw the colonial officer give him through the spyglass had him agitated beyond words. The gesture itself was a grave insult, but the fact tha
t he knew of only one man who ever delivered that insult vexed him. That was not just an informed agent, that was the same man he saw die all those years ago in Edinburgh. He was certain of that face, as ludicrous as it may sound. Could the man’s continued existence be one of the many secrets held by the 34th degree Freemason members he longed to join? He hated not knowing.

  The sight of ten soldiers moving against the flow of the marching columns caught his attention and snapped him back to the present task of reaching Yorktown in time. The approaching individuals were a ragged bunch of men wearing mud stained trousers and boots with red coats nearly torn to ribbons.

  “What is the meaning of this,” Henry insisted. “Why are you out of rank and proper uniform?”

  “We’re arriving with news from Yorktown,” one of the exhausted men managed to announce. “The city fell to the colonials five days ago.”

  “The city is lost?” Henry repeated before turning his thoughts to a more important matter. “What of General Cornwallis and his army? Where are they?”

  “The entire army was forced to surrender along with the city. The southern army no longer exists,” the man managed before breaking down into tears.

  “The war is lost then,” Henry added in a soft voice pressed down by the weight of disbelief.

  “We still have your northern army holding New York. There’s still hope,” a nearby captain offered, but even he did not believe the words.

  Chapter 43: A Deceptive Peace

  Henry Clinton’s eyes met those of his father from across the room. In truth, he could barely stand to look at the man. When last they spoke in person, his father reassured Henry that all was well in hand. The grand strategy of the Freemason’s inner circle regarding the American colonies was coming about as expected.

  Now here they were at opposite ends of the Hotel d’ York’s grand foyer in Paris, hosting an American diplomatic delegation dictating terms of peace to them. The Americans could do this, of course, because they won the war. Funny how everything worked out exactly as Henry predicted back when Parliament, in its infinite wisdom, provoked the American Revolution by enacting their intolerable acts.