Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  She had become a mother.

  She raised her head. “Where’s Matthew?”

  Soderquist said nothing as he walked to the door and opened it. Matthew was standing in the hallway, waiting.

  “Come say hello to your son,” Soderquist said, and in two seconds Matthew was beside Kathleen, one arm about her, as he opened the towel and stared.

  Was this the miracle of fatherhood? This tiny, red, wrinkled, squirming object clutched to Kathleen’s breast? Timidly Matthew reached to touch the soft cheek, and the baby opened its unseeing eyes, and moved.

  In profound amazement Matthew muttered, “He moves!”

  Soderquist laughed and Margaret exclaimed, “Well, of course he moves!”

  Matthew turned his face to Kathleen, and in her eyes he saw a depth and a feeling that had never been there before. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded once, but said nothing.

  He leaned to kiss her, and he sensed in her touch that their lives were forever changed, lifted, enlarged. For a time he said nothing as he sat beside his wife and newborn son, feeling the rise of new bonds, new plateaus of love that he had never known before.

  “Well,” Soderquist said, “there’s some things yet to do. Matthew, you better go. We’ve got some more cleanup, and we’ll have to wrap Kathleen. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  Reluctantly, Matthew walked back to the parlor where the three children were waiting.

  “It was a boy, wasn’t it?” Adam said.

  “It was a boy. You’re an uncle to a little boy. Prissy, you’re an aunt. Aunt Prissy, Priscilla. How does it sound?”

  Prissy looked very mature. “Fine. Just like I expected.”

  Matthew walked out the front door into the incomparable beauty of a spring day in Boston. Never had the trees been greener, the flowers more beautiful, more colorful. Every person on the street was somehow his friend. He breathed deeply of the faint salt hint in the air, and his thoughts went to the waterfront, to the small schooner on which he had lived for the past many weeks.

  Soderquist walked out into the yard to meet him. “Before we go back, there are a couple of things.”

  Matthew stiffened. “The baby’s all right? Kathleen?”

  Soderquist smiled. “Both as healthy as horses. Baby weighs about eight or nine pounds, as far as I know. As I recall, he looks just about the same as you looked the day I brought you into the world. Got a howl just like yours. That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

  “What, then?”

  “How long will you be able to stay here this trip?”

  “At least ten days. Maybe as much as two or three months. Depends on what happens with the British down in the West Indies.”

  “I know a little about what’s going on down there. French and British ships are playing cat and mouse, aren’t they?”

  ‘Yes. But that’s not the problem.”

  “What is?”

  “We’ve been watching General Cornwallis in the South like a hawk. It’s apparent he intends moving his army north, probably to take Virginia. If he does, it’s likely the French will use their ships to move troops down to the Chesapeake to engage him. If they do, no one knows what will happen, because the British also have ships of the line down there, and it’s possible the two navies—French and British—will engage each other.”

  “What do you see happening? Are they evenly matched?”

  “Hard to say. They both have excellent admirals. The French sent over Admiral de Grasse, and the British have both Graves and Hood over here, and maybe Rodney will show up, too. No one knows who will be in ultimate command.”

  “If the French and British fight it out, will that involve you?”

  “If it happens—if the two navies engage in a sea battle anywhere off our east coast—I plan to volunteer to serve as a navigator for the French. The French know something of the east coast, but none of them have had the experience I’ve had. I think I can be of help.”

  “You plan to get into a major naval battle?”

  “It could happen.”

  “Kathleen know this?”

  “Some, but not all. I’ll tell her when the time’s right.”

  Soderquist heaved a great sigh. “Well, I doubt I can say anything that’s going to change your mind. You’ve got a beautiful wife and son in there. Whatever you do, you be careful. I didn’t bring you into this world to get you killed at this stage of your life.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Soderquist turned to go, and Matthew caught his coat sleeve.

  “Walter, there’s hardly a way to thank you. For everything. All my life. I’ll be careful.”

  “You see to it. By the way. What name do I put on the paper?”

  “Let’s go ask Kathleen.”

  The two made their way back to the bedroom, where Kathleen held the tiny bundle to her breast, eyes closed, face glowing from an inward source.

  Matthew sat down beside her, lost in the wonder of the miracle that had entered his life.

  “Walter wants to know what the name should be.”

  Without hesitation Kathleen said, “John Matthew. John Matthew Dunson.”

  Margaret clapped her hand over her mouth, and Dorothy glanced at the floor for a moment.

  Soderquist cleared his throat. “Well, that catches the best of it. I’m sure John heard that, and he’s proud. John Matthew Dunson it is.”

  Notes

  The Dunson family and friends and Doctor Soderquist are fictional characters. The reader is invited to review the chapter endnotes for chapter 21 for authority on the handling of childbirth in the Revolutionary War period.

  Regarding Matthew’s statements of the presence of the British and French navies in the West Indies (the Caribbean area), the entire matter will be set forth in closer detail in chapters yet to come.

  Near Danbury, Connecticut

  Late July 1781

  CHAPTER XXXI

  * * *

  In the purple of dusk, Washington reined his gray gelding in front of his headquarters building, a tired man riding a tired horse. In silence he dismounted, placed his hands on his hips, and leaned back to relieve muscles too long in one position. Around him his armed guard and two aides dismounted—grim, quiet, road-weary, sweated out in the July heat. From dawn to dark, with French General Rochambeau and two of his French officers beside him, they had been four days riding methodically from hilltop to hilltop with telescopes in hand to sit their horses while they studied the detail of the British positions and fortifications in and around New York. Keeping five thousand troops between them and General Clinton’s army, and one hundred fifty selected cavalry clustered about for protection, they had slowly reached the inevitable conclusion. The British were too many, too well-fortified, too well-supplied, to be taken by the American forces. The great dream of General Washington to redeem his losses at Long Island, White Plains, and Fort Washington on Manhattan Island was to be denied him.

  On the fourth day, as they returned to the Continental Army headquarters near Morristown, General Rochambeau with his staff and an armed guard had respectfully taken his leave of Washington to return to his French command at Rhode Island, to wait as he had for nearly a year, watching for the opportunity to strike the blow that would cripple the British. None knew when, or where, it was to be, only that it would be foolish to waste their men and ammunition in an attack on the British at New York.

  While his staff went their separate ways to their quarters, Washington entered his headquarters building with his aide, Major Tench Tilghman. In his office, he hung his tricorn on its peg, lighted a lamp, and took his place behind his desk. Before him was unopened correspondence stacked six inches deep that required his personal attention—the price a commanding officer pays when duty draws him from his office. Tilghman stood in the doorway, waiting for instructions.

  Washington raised exhausted eyes. “Take a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “We’re st
alemated. We do not have sufficient forces to defeat General Clinton here in New York, and he does not have enough to break out and defeat us. We’re also bankrupt. Either we find a way to win soon—very soon—or we will lose by default.”

  Tilghman nodded silent agreement.

  Washington drew and slowly released a great breath. “I had hoped that the French would be the key to our victory.” He tossed one hand into the air in a hopeless gesture and let it fall. “Admiral d’Estaing was here for a year, did nothing, and returned to France. General Rochambeau has been here for a year, but has also done nothing.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Congress sent John Laurens to France to get money. He was ignored until he literally walked into King Louis’s chambers and demanded it. He could have been thrown into prison for his brazenness. King Louis did arrange a guaranteed loan from Holland, but only about one tenth of what was needed.”

  Tilghman sighed. “I heard about it. General Rochambeau has requested more money from Admiral de Grasse.”

  “I know, but it has not been forthcoming. De Grasse is somewhere down in the West Indies, engaged with the British for possession of the islands down there. He could have been a critical force if he had brought his fleet here.”

  “I believe his orders are otherwise.”

  “That is true, but our forces combined with the French could possibly end this entire matter quickly.”

  He stopped, and for a time neither man spoke as each worked with his own thoughts. Washington broke the silence.

  “I’m considering moving some of our forces south to join General Lafayette in Virginia, or General Greene in South Carolina. Time is against us. We can’t wait. We must do something.”

  “Is there a firm plan in mind?”

  Washington slowly shook his head. He leaned forward, long forearms on the desk, palms flat. “No. Maybe we can make a feint toward General Cornwallis that will prompt General Clinton to send part of his command south to help him. That might give us an opening here to attack New York. Or maybe we can go on down to South Carolina and somehow help General Greene.”

  He leaned back in his chair and for a few moments rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “Does the General desire some refreshment? Hot chocolate? Coffee?”

  Washington shook his head. “I’ll have to sort through these messages, and then I’m going to my quarters. You should go to yours. You’re dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was close to eleven o’clock when Washington turned out the lamp and went to his sleeping quarters. Slowly he removed his tunic and thoughtfully laid it on the chair beside his bed, then walked to the window to draw back the drape. For a time he peered out into the black-vaulted heavens, studying the endless stars, great and small. Thoughts came and he let them run unchecked.

  Endless—without number—not by accident—there is order—the Almighty presides—right is stronger than wrong—right will prevail—finally it will prevail—must find a way—must see it through.

  In full darkness he hung his uniform on the chair and went to his bed to sleep the sleep of a bone-weary man who had carried a revolution on his shoulders for six years.

  He was washed and dressed when the camp drums hammered out the five a.m. reveille call, and by six o’clock had drafted responses to the messages on his desk. At fifteen minutes past six an aide brought his simple breakfast of hot chocolate, bread, eggs, and fried strips of bacon.

  At seven o’clock Major Tilghman rapped on his door.

  “Sir, is there any way I can be of assistance? Any messages I might help with?”

  “No. Carry on with your usual duties.”

  At half-past nine a firm rap on his door brought Washington up short. “Enter.”

  The door swung open and Tilghman took one step into the room with a document in his hand. Instantly Washington sensed the tension in the slender man, and leaned back, waiting.

  “Sir, this was just delivered by messenger.” He stepped to the front of the desk and held it out, eyes never leaving Washington’s.

  Washington took the sealed document and for a moment studied the gold wax seal, then the beautifully scrolled writing of his name on the front. He was aware of the beginnings of an excitement deep in his chest. He broke the seal, unfolded the document, laid it on his desk, and read the signature.

  Admiral François Joseph Paul Comte de Grasse.

  Washington scarcely breathed as he read the document. He raised wide eyes to Tilghman, then with trembling hands read it once again. He straightened in his chair, and Tilghman recoiled. Never had he seen the wild, ecstatic expression that he now saw on Washington’s face.

  “He’s coming!” Washington exclaimed. He stood. “He’s coming from the West Indies!” He began to pace, pointing at the letter, moving, gesturing. “He sails from Santo Domingo on August thirteenth for the Chesapeake.”

  The air in the small office was electrified! Tilghman bolted to his feet, momentarily unable to speak.

  Washington could not contain himself. “He’s bringing twenty-five to twenty-nine ships of the line! Warships! Three regiments of French regulars—the best they have—three thousand of them!”

  Tilghman stood stockstill, gaping.

  Washington went on. “One hundred dragoons, one hundred artillerists, ten field pieces, and siege cannons and mortars! Siege cannon, mind you! Siege cannon!” He repeated it as though trying to grasp the reality in his mind.

  “For how long?” Tilghman exclaimed.

  Washington strode back to his desk and thumped a long index finger onto the letter. “Until October fifteenth! Close to six weeks!”

  Tilghman fell silent while his mind leaped, making calculations. “The troops—are they General Rochambeau’s men from Rhode Island?”

  “No! They are in addition to General Rochambeau’s command.”

  “With Rochambeau’s men, that will be nearly ten thousand French!”

  “Armed and battle-ready! Together with a naval force equal to anything the British have!”

  “With our Continentals,” Tilghman exclaimed, “that could bring our fighting force to well over fifteen thousand!”

  “For the first time since the revolution began,” Washington said.

  He stopped his pacing, and Tilghman watched the iron will rise within the man. He settled, sat down in his chair, and once again he was the steady, disciplined commander. He folded the letter, then looked at Tilghman.

  “I believe General Greene is still in South Carolina. Have we received any reports to the contrary?”

  “No, sir. He’s still down there.”

  “General Lafayette remains in Virginia?”

  “He does, sir.”

  “General Cornwallis is moving north, into Virginia, toward General Lafayette?”

  “Yes, sir. General Greene’s forces have drawn him north, staying just out of gun range. Cornwallis has tried to follow Greene’s men—including Colonel Marion and Thomas Sumter—across at least three major rivers, the Broad, Yadkin, and the Dan, and reports are that the British force is in serious condition—sickness, lack of food, exhaustion—they simply are no match for the South Carolinians in the woods.”

  “Where is General Cornwallis now? At last report?”

  “He’s marching for a small town in Virginia, on the York River, to refurbish and refit his army. They’re close to total exhaustion.”

  Quickly Washington unrolled a scrolled map. “Can you show me the town?”

  Tilghman laid a finger on the parchment. “There, sir. A small tobacco trading village named Yorktown.”

  Washington’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and he murmured, “Yorktown.” He peered down to study the map for a time. “South of Head of Elk, on Lynnhaven Harbor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The mouth of the Chesapeake is directly east. From Yorktown, ships have rapid access to the open waters of the Atlantic.”

  “They do, sir.”

  F
or a time Washington studied the map, moving his finger, making calculations. Tilghman watched, marveling at how suddenly the single message from Admiral de Grasse had elevated the entire revolution from the black depths of despair to the dizzying bright heights of hope. Never had he seen General Washington transported so quickly, so violently, from despondency to lofty optimism. He watched in silence, waiting.

  Washington broke the silence. “I have heard Admiral Graves commands the British naval forces in our waters. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir, at last report. Admiral Hood and perhaps Admiral Rodney may have arrived. We don’t know that. And Admiral Arbuthnot was here not long ago. It remains to be seen who Admiral Graves will use as his subordinates.”

  “Admiral Graves is quite conservative, as I recall.”

  “Very cautious, sir.”

  Washington’s voice was calm, controlled. “Thank you. I have much to do. I must not be disturbed. See to it no one interrupts me except for most extreme matters until I send for you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are dismissed.”

  At two p.m. Tilghman stopped in the hallway facing the door, a large tray of food covered with a great napkin balanced on one hand. He knocked. Seconds passed, and he was raising his hand to knock again when the familiar voice came from within.

  “Enter.”

  Tilghman opened the door and stepped inside. Washington raised his head, facing him. The window was open in the hope of a breeze to relieve the heavy July heat that had built up in the small office. Washington’s desktop was covered with two large maps, and a growing stack of documents he had drafted. The steely blue eyes pinioned Tilghman.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, you have got to eat. I brought something.”

  “Set it there.” Washington pointed to a small table in the corner of the room.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was there anything else?”