With the whole company looking on approvingly, Pongo, his body ritually painted, lit a fire and strewed herbs upon it to produce a thick smoke, then danced in a tight circle round Gilles and the fire, chanting aloud. After a final invocation of the Great Spirit, he traced black and white marks upon him to represent his new name and that was that. La Fayette congratulated his lieutenant and presented the company with a cask of rum and the occasion ended in a cloud of tobacco smoke, this being the only thing that had not been in short supply since their entry into the country of George Washington and the Princess Pocahontas. But on the following night, the Gyrfalcon's men justified their leader's new name by surprising a party of Cornwallis' scouts who, under the persuasive influence of the one-time medicine man, revealed some astonishing facts. The English General, after abandoning the state capital of Richmond to La Fayette the previous year, somewhat to the latter's mystification, had now evacuated Williamsburg.
This time, La Fayette understood well enough. Cornwallis, tired of pursuing him, was leaving him to his fate and returning to his first aim which was to make a forced march on New York in order to help Clinton to win a decisive victory, or rather to win it for him, for the two men disliked one another extremely and were as jealous as they could possibly be.
In desperation, the Marquis flung his whole force after the English, forcing them to entrench themselves in Yorktown, at the mouth of the river York which flowed at that point into the vast Chesapeake estuary. At the same time, he sent a letter to Washington, begging to be allowed to rejoin him, or at least to be told what to do. The heat was overpowering, the mosquitoes unbearable and, despite the arrival of a battalion from Pennsylvania, La Fayette was at his wits' end. Cornwallis was fortifying Yorktown as though he meant to remain there for the rest of his life. It was already midway through August and still no decisive battle had been fought.
The answer came like a thunderclap, brought by a French officer, General du Portail. Washington's orders to his dear marquis were to stay where he was and keep an eye on Cornwallis because he had finally given in to the arguments of Rochambeau, who was against a battle for New York, and had decided that the much-heralded decisive battle should take place in Virginia.
Almost beside himself with delight, the young General called his officers together and tossed the latest news at them piecemeal, like a bunch of flowers. Rochambeau's troops had left Newport, had joined up with Washington at Philipsburg and were now marching, in an excellent order that was to excite the admiration of the Americans, down into Virginia. Admiral de Grasse's fleet, meanwhile, was to drop anchor at the mouth of the Chesapeake, while Barras remained off New York to keep Clinton guessing about the American's intentions.
'Gentlemen,' La Fayette cried, in his squeaky voice, 'at all costs, we must keep Cornwallis bottled up in Yorktown until our friends arrive. Get yourselves killed to the last man, but do not let a single Englishman escape. Long live the United States of America! Long live General Washington! Long live France!'
He was rewarded with a vociferous cry of 'Long live La Fayette!' Hope being the best of tonics, all those wretched men who for months had been fighting their way blindly across a ravaged countryside, had ceased even to believe that it would ever come to an end. They believed themselves forgotten, relegated to the duties of a guard dog, and now they were going to be in the very heart of the action, they had become indispensable and now they were sure that their deaths would not be in vain. That night, the sick were less feverish and the dying closed their eyes with a smile.
'What I can't understand,' Tim said, scratching his head, 'is what Cornwallis hopes to gain by shutting himself up in a small place like Yorktown. It's not even as though it was important. So why waste time fortifying it rather than going on?'
'Because, unless he goes the long way round as we did, he has to cross the estuary. And for that, he is waiting for Admiral Rodney's fleet to take his men all the way to New York painlessly. We can only hope that Admiral Grasse will get here first.'
The die was cast now. The winter's slow manoeuvring, the exchange of letters, the councils, the patient work of spies, was all coming together at last and the clock of America was about to strike the hour of destiny. They must be victorious at Yorktown, or else renounce the marvellous dream of Independence for ever.
Chapter Fourteen
Destiny
Yorktown… The red and blue folds of the union jack flapping over a timber fort, bristling with guns, perched on a headland far up the York river and flanked by two strong redoubts. Low houses built of weathered wood, watchtowers and the delicate spire of a little church. And all around, marshes, reedbeds, sea pines, yellow hills, well-wooded and ideally suited for observation, with, away to the east, the great bight of Chesapeake Bay and the immense ocean beyond.
Lieutenant Goëlo leaned his back against one of the trees that overhung his quarters, arms folded on his chest, gazing meditatively at the broad landscape where fate had decreed that the fate of a nation would be decided. All was ready for the final act. The commanders, united as never before, had drawn a tight cordon of steel from the river bank on either side around the promontory on which the town stood. Starting at Wormeley's Creek, there were the troops which General Greene had brought up from the Carolinas, then La Fayette's and Lincoln's, drawn up below the heavy guns of the American artillery, next door to which was Rochambeau's with Washington's position immediately behind and a part of the French artillery in front of them. Between this and the river were the French regiments of Baron Viomenil and the Vicomte, his brother and then the three thousand men of the Agenais, Touraine and Gâtinais regiments under the command of the Marquis de Saint-Simon, landed by Admiral de Grasse coming up from the West Indies.
And on the other side, blocking the estuary from Cape Henry to Cape Charles, were the tall white pyramids of the French fleet under shortened sail and keeping station on the huge, 104-gun Ville de Paris, the Comte de Grasse's flagship. The fleet was resting comfortably on its laurels after its recent victory over Admirals Graves and Hood, who had now gone off to New York to lick their wounds, although without abating one jot of its vigilance notwithstanding. There was no telling whether the formidable Rodney might not come down on them in an attempt to force an entry into the Chesapeake and relieve Cornwallis. In the meanwhile, the giant de Grasse was standing guard, made glorious not merely by his victory but by the enormous popularity he had acquired with the army at his first encounter with Washington by embracing him warmly and calling him 'my little general'.
'It's nice to have a full-scale battle after all that skirmishing,' Tim said, coming to join his friend. 'It certainly looks impressive, I must say.'
'A battle? But it hasn't begun yet.'
'What?' Tim cried, yelling to make himself heard above the roar of the guns. 'I could have sworn—'
The bombardment had in fact been going on for four days and nights now, covering the fields and marshes in a pall of white smoke and opening breaches which were as quickly filled. Meanwhile, for a fortnight past, General de Portail's sappers had been crawling methodically and inexorably nearer to the besieged town, digging saps and trenches. It was true that the real battle would only begin when the signal was given for the general advance, but there were some dead already and many wounded lying in the field hospital which had been set up to the westward on the road to Williamsburg and was already too small.
Gilles shrugged and sighed.
'It won't be today, at any rate.'
The day, in fact, was almost over. The sun had gone behind the hills, swallowed up into the trees. A trumpet was sounding somewhere and all over the camp the fires were being lighted. A party of horsemen was riding back to headquarters, led by two tall figures instantly recognizable as Washington and Rochambeau, returning from their daily inspection of the ground. In a little while, it would be growing cold.
Tim had moved off, but there was someone else approaching.
'What is it, Pongo?' Gilles asked, without t
urning. From living in the wild, his ear had grown keen enough to catch and identify the smallest sounds. Moreover, on this occasion, the Indian's quickened breathing indicated that he had been running.
'An ambush!'
His master swung round instantly.
'Where?'
'Over there – in the woods. The Hampton road.' He spread out his fingers to indicate half a score of men.
'Who are they? French, or Americans?'
'Americans – but not soldiers. They hide in trees. They men of this country – wait for white officer.'
'I don't know what you're talking about, but we'll go and see.'
Gilles borrowed a horse from Colonel de Gimat and, taking Pongo up behind him, rode towards the woods through which ran the road to Hampton. The road itself he carefully avoided. When he came to the edge of the trees, he dismounted, tethering the animal to a tree, and signed to Pongo to lead the way. Darkness had fallen but there was still light enough for these two, who had eyes like cats. Not the smallest rustle of leaves betrayed their presence, moving on into the wood.
It was very quiet. From time to time there came the quick scamper of a rabbit or the cry of some nocturnal creature, but that was all. All at once, Pongo, who had been crouching low, stopped dead. They had reached the Hampton road.
The Indian raised his arm cautiously, pointing to a spot among the trees. Autumn had already begun to thin out the leaves and some darker patches showed where a number of men were in hiding, waiting for something, or someone. Gilles made a sign that he had understood and crept forward slowly, keeping his eye on the treetops, until there was only a bramble bush between him and the road. Once there, he drew the two loaded pistols which, with his sword, comprised his whole armament. That done, he froze, leaving Pongo to his own devices. In an affair of this kind it was never necessary to give him any orders. He seemed to know instinctively what to do.
They did not have to wait long. They heard the light clop of a horse's hooves and, echoing them, a voice that whispered: 'Here he comes!'
Gilles peered out and made out the light splash of a white horse, surmounted by the dark figure of its rider, against the ribbon of the road.
A flash of the white cockade in the black cocked hat had told Gilles that the officer was French and, what was more, someone he was quite certainly acquainted with. The man's figure, enveloped in its great black cloak, was vague but there was something about his way of sitting a horse and the shortened reins which reminded him of someone.
It all happened very quickly. The rider passed in under the trees and then, a few yards beyond Gilles, he pulled up short with an angry shout. A large fishing net had descended on him from the trees above, enveloping him and his horse which stumbled and fell with a whinney of pain. In the same instant, the waiting men swarmed out of the trees.
Someone shouted: 'Don't kill him! I want him alive! It would be too easy otherwise!'
The next moment there were two yells of anguish as Gilles discharged both pistols at the legs of the supposed bandits. Then he had his sword out and charged straight at them, with a fiendish cry which was echoed by a howl from Pongo, who had elected to emulate the first party and drop from the trees. His sword met no opposition beyond some long knives and a few strokes were enough to put two men out of action, Pongo just striking down his second victim. The rest fled, leaving the place to the wounded and the rider on his fallen horse, still tangled in the net. Gilles went to kneel beside him. 'Are you hurt, sir?'
'Not at all, thanks to you. But I fear my horse's leg is broken.'
The stranger spoke French with an accent which Gilles had not the slightest difficulty in recognizing. He started to laugh.
'Why, Monsieur de Fersen! What the devil have you been up to, Count, to make these fellows try to net you in the woods like this?'
The prisoner in the net struggled furiously. 'And who the devil are you?' he snarled. 'A Frenchman I take it, and your voice is somewhat familiar, but I can't see a thing and you'd be better employed in getting me out of this.'
'We're trying to. If you'd only keep still. Pongo's knife is as sharp as a razor. I'd hate to get you out piecemeal.'
The Indian cut swiftly through the meshes and Fersen was able to free himself but his first action was to bend over his horse, which was still lying on its side and twitching spasmodically, and examine it carefully.
'I'm afraid there's nothing to be done,' Gilles said. 'His leg is broken.'
The Swede, cursing softly, stroked the animal's neck with tenderness and it turned its head towards him, but he did not hesitate. Taking his pistol from his belt, he put the barrel close to the long, silky ear, then turned his eyes away and pulled the trigger. The horse's body jerked once and then lay still.
Gilles had watched its death in a tense silence. Every fibre of his being responded to the feelings of the man forced to shoot his companion. War had taught him to kill with a measure of indifference and yet he would never be able to see a horse or a dog die without grieving.
Fersen, meanwhile, had found a dry pine branch and set light to it. The glare illumined the scene, revealing, stark against the surrounding dark, the great white body of the horse, the red-brown figure of Pongo standing over the two wounded men whose eyes glittered furiously in their soot-blackened faces, and, finally, Gilles himself. At the sight of his face, Fersen let out an exclamation of delight.
'Monsieur de Goëlo! Good God! It is a pleasure to have been saved by you! Your reputation has travelled a long way. It stands as high with the French as with the Rebels. You are a credit to your country.'
'I thank you,' Gilles said, laughing. 'But however high the reputation you would bestow on me, it cannot ennoble me, you know. The "de" is superfluous.'
'And no one could be sorrier than I! But it may not always be so. I have some credit at court and when we return to France you may count on me to do my best to see my rescuer honoured as he deserves. You have my word for that. And now, give me your hand to seal the bargain and our friendship after the manner of this country.'
A groan, half of pain and half of sheer fury recalled them to the existence of their wounded prisoners. One had fainted after trying to rise but the other was champing with helpless rage.
'Why don't you stop congratulating yourselves and finish us off?' he roared. 'I'm suffering the agonies of the damned!'
'If it comes to that,' Gilles said, 'will you tell me the reason for this ambush? You were ten against one, and that one a man who came here out of his generosity to serve your country—'
'To serve our country?' The man sneered, his young face looking like an angry faun. 'We never asked you to. And, for another thing, if your way of serving us is to assault our womenfolk, you'd have done better to have stayed at home.'
'Suppose you tell me just what happened?' Gilles said, bending down to look at the man's injured leg. It was not a pretty sight. The tibia had been fractured and a long splinter of white bone protruded through the mangled flesh. The man would always walk with a limp.
'My name is Arthur Collins. I'm a fisherman and I have a small house not far from here. I live there with my young sister, Margaret… She is pretty enough to have caught this gentleman's eye and he has often come to her in the night while I have been at sea. Yesterday morning, I was just in time to see him jump out of the window and make off.
'I thought I would go mad. My sister! That wretch dared to debauch my sister! As though she were some common strumpet—'
'He did not rape her, I imagine?'
'No. Poor fool, she let him bewitch her with his fine words. He told her she was like a European lady – a great lady of the court. She told me that through her tears, and now she takes herself for a princess. She raved at me and I had to lock her up to stop her going after him. What have you to say to that? I think he deserves to die – and worse than that. I'd like to see him eaten by sharks!'
Gilles' shoulders lifted a little in disgust. The hatred of the man was almost palpable.
&n
bsp; 'I have nothing to say. Except that people will always make fools of themselves for love, that you are as bloodthirsty as an Iroquois – and that your leg badly needs attention. We're going to put you up on my horse and take you to the army hospital.'
'And let them murder us? No thank you! Besides, I don't want your help. If you don't want to finish us off, just leave us here and go away. Someone will come and see to us as soon as you've taken that savage of yours away.'
'Just as you like. But next time you have a score of this kind to settle, go and ask for satisfaction in daylight, and don't behave like highway robbers. Come, sir.'
He took the Swede by the arm and would have drawn him off but Fersen, freeing himself gently, went back to where the man lay and took out his purse and laid it by him.
'Find a good physician to tend you and your friend. As for Margaret, tell her I was not deceiving her and that I shall always remember her.'
'You can go to hell! I don't want your money.' But Fersen had already rejoined the others and together they made their way back to the place where Gilles had left his horse.
'Take this to get you home,' he told the Swede. 'You have farther to go than I. Only send him back to us when you have done. I borrowed him from Colonel de Gimat.'
The moon was rising and its light fell on the Swede's cool, handsome face and tousled fair hair. He had lost his wig in the affray and it had had the misfortune to fall in a puddle and was quite unwearable, but this only made him look younger. The cloak thrown back from one shoulder gave a glimpse of his exquisite blue and yellow uniform coat and immaculate white cuffs and leathers. He had emerged from his fishing net looking as neat as if he were going to a ball. But he declined the horse.
'Good lord, no! I can walk.'
'In boots?'
'Yes, in boots! I have deserved some punishment for my sins and there is no reason why you should do penance for me. Besides, walking is good for thinking, and it is a beautiful night. I shall have my dreams.'
Falcon 1 - The Lure of the Falcon Page 38