Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  “No, sir.”

  “Thank you. You are dismissed.”

  Tilghman remained in the reception room through the heat of the day, listening for Washington’s door to open. At five o’clock the General walked out of the building toward the latrine, and Tilghman quickly entered his office. The tray of food had been picked at, but not eaten. The desktop was covered with documents. The maps had lines drawn on them, both on the land, and on the Atlantic and Chesapeake Bay.

  At seven o’clock Tilghman brought a second tray of food, exchanged it for the half-eaten remains on the small table, and walked out with Washington hunched over his desk, quill in hand, scratching out a new document.

  At ten o’clock the camp drummer pounded out taps, and the lights in the tents of the enlisted darkened. At midnight Tilghman was sitting at the foyer desk fighting sleep when the sound of the door in the hallway came, then the steady sound of Washington’s boots in the hallway. Tilghman jerked fully awake and stood.

  Washington stopped, mild surprise on his face. “I expected you to be asleep in your quarters.”

  “I’m fine, sir. Just wondering if you need anything.”

  “Not at the moment. Could you be in my office at seven o’clock in the morning? We have much to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Thank you for your services.”

  The morning sun was ninety minutes into a cloudless blue sky when Tilghman rapped on the office door and entered upon invitation. He could not recall seeing Washington so refreshed, wearing a clean uniform, long hair drawn back and caught behind his head.

  “Be seated.”

  Tilghman took his usual place opposite Washington and quickly scanned the desktop. The maps were scrolled on the left side, a stack of finished, sealed documents on the center and right. There was an urgency in Washington’s voice as he spoke.

  “We do not have one hour to waste. What I have decided is set forth in these documents. They are my written orders to those who will participate in what is to come. The entire plan will become clear for you as I explain what I have written.”

  Washington paused and Tilghman said, “I understand, sir.”

  Washington picked up the first document. “This is my written order to be delivered to General Lafayette in Virginia. He is to do whatever he must to be certain General Cornwallis and his army remain in or near Yorktown.”

  He picked up the second document. “These are written orders to General Nathanael Greene. He is to remain where he is in South Carolina, to hold what British forces remain there until further orders. However, he is to send whatever soldiers he can spare north, to join us at Yorktown.”

  Tilghman remained silent, feeling the tension that was beginning to build in the small room.

  Washington continued. “These documents are to be delivered as soon as possible to Generals Lafayette and Greene. The man who shall take them is Scout Eli Stroud. Some four months ago he spent several weeks down there, and he will know how to find both men quickly.”

  Tilghman nodded, and a faint smile flickered at the remembrance of Eli Stroud—the only man in the entire Continental Army who could not be trained to salute General Washington.

  “I know Scout Stroud, sir.”

  Washington’s eyes narrowed, and the tension rose. “This next document is the most critical of all. It must be delivered as quickly as possible, by a courier who will not fail. It is a letter to be carried by General Duportail to Admiral de Grasse, who is either waiting in the West Indies, or under sail coming north. It informs the Admiral that General Rochambeau with his command, and I with as many men as I can spare from my command, will meet him, either off the Virginia Capes, or at Charleston, depending on developments. It requests that he send frigates and transports up the Chesapeake to Head of Elk to carry us—Rochambeau’s troops as well as my own—down the Bay to whichever location will best serve our purposes.”

  Washington stopped, waiting until understanding appeared in Tilghman’s face.

  “Whoever carries this message must know the waters off our coasts perfectly. Do you recall the schooner we sent down to survey circumstances in the West Indies? The Swallow?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “The report I received at the completion of that mission was outstanding. That vessel shall carry General Duportail, and this document, down to Admiral de Grasse.”

  Tilghman nodded in silence.

  Washington selected another sealed writing. “Further, the navigator on that ship will deliver this. That navigator has been represented to me as having intimate knowledge and experience with every channel, every island, the tides, and the prevailing winds on the east coast of the continent. This document is my high recommendation to Admiral de Grasse that that navigator be allowed to render to the French fleet whatever service he might in assisting them to complete their very complex assignment.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Washington plucked up the next document. “This is to Admiral de Barras, in Newport. It requests that when General Rochambeau marches out with his army, the Admiral load all the siege guns and equipment left behind by General Rochambeau and transport it down to the Chesapeake Bay to make it available for use there. He is to sail in a wide arc, out into the Atlantic, to confuse the British if possible, and give Admiral de Grasse time to bring his fleet to the Chesapeake. I might add, General Rochambeau has elected to move his troops south by boat, rather than a march. It is not critical, either way.”

  Washington stopped, eyes pinned on Tilghman. “What questions thus far?”

  Tilghman cleared his throat. “Could I see a map of the Chesapeake, sir? It would help to see all this on a map.”

  Washington handed him a scroll, and Tilghman spread it on the desktop. For nearly one minute he studied the Virginia coastline—the Capes, the Chesapeake, the York and the James rivers coming in from the west. He finished and scrolled the map. “I think I have it clear, sir.”

  Washington stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he gathered his thoughts. He returned to his desk and sat down, once again facing Tilghman.

  “What comes next is probably the most delicate part of the entire plan.” He paused, and the room became utterly silent, save for the quiet ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel. The tension peaked.

  “We must deceive General Clinton. When we march our men out of here, we must do it in such a way that he does not realize we are gone until it is too late. The question is, how do we take thousands of men south, in plain sight, without him knowing it. If he discovers it and sends word to Admiral Graves, we could lose at Yorktown.”

  For a moment he waited, and Tilghman asked, “Sir, what route will we follow in our march south?”

  Washington unscrolled a map and his finger traced as he spoke. “We cross the Hudson here, at King’s Ferry near Stony Point, then march south partially hidden by the New Jersey Palisades, through Newark, on to New Brunswick. I plan to stop there long enough to hastily put together a huge encampment—big enough to make General Clinton think we’re there to stay. To add to the illusion I am ordering our forces to build a series of huge bake-ovens at Chatham—enough to serve our entire force. They will be out in the open, easily observable. The British will know of it within forty-eight hours of the moment we start building them. It is my hope General Clinton will believe we would not be building such ovens if we did not intend remaining here around New York.”

  Tilghman leaned back, surprised. Washington picked up the last document.

  “To help in the deception, I am ordering thirty large, flat-bottomed boats to be hauled into that camp on wagons. I think General Clinton will conclude we intend making an amphibious landing with them, and with Staten Island just off the New Jersey coast, he’ll think we intend starting there.”

  He stopped, took a deep breath, and straightened in his chair. “May I ask, what is your reaction to all this, Major?” Washington’s face had never shown the intense concentration Tilgh
man saw in it now.

  “It’s the most massive military operation I ever saw.”

  Washington nodded but remained silent, waiting.

  “It can go wrong in a number of places.”

  “Where?”

  “What if Admiral Graves reaches the Chesapeake before Admiral de Grasse? What if Clinton discovers the deception and follows our forces down to Yorktown? He could trap us between his army and the Bay. If any of our forces—the Continentals, the French army, Lafayette’s command, Greene’s command—fail to perform as ordered, and on time, the entire plan could disintegrate.”

  Washington nodded. “Go on.”

  “If de Grasse changes his mind as d’Estaing did, and fails to come to the Chesapeake, or if he engages the British naval forces and loses, the British will control the Bay. We would be vulnerable to immediate attack from both sides—north from Clinton, south by Cornwallis.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not immediately, no, sir.”

  “I’ve thought of all that, and you are right. This is a gigantic campaign. Land forces of two countries marching long distances, dependent on naval forces to eliminate the one threat that could defeat them, all requiring precise timing and dedication—it could be the perfect formula for a disaster. I know that.”

  Washington was no longer able to sit, and he rose.

  “But in the history of this revolution—for the past six years—there has never been a time when we have had at our fingertips a great naval force, and a trained army, in numbers larger than the British, and had the opportunity to trap one of their best generals and his command with every reason to think we can be successful. At this moment, we have it all! It will not come again! I must move now, or only the Almighty knows when this war will end, and who will win, and who will lose.”

  He stopped, and Tilghman could feel the power surging from the man to touch him as he spoke in a low, steady voice, eyes like burning embers.

  “I am moving ahead. I can do nothing else. We will win at Yorktown. We must! We must!”

  In that moment, it seemed the air in the office was electrified. Tilghman sat silent, aware something beyond human control was present in the room. Slowly it faded, and was gone.

  Washington cleared his throat and sat down, his demeanor and voice now as it normally was.

  “Major Tilghman, here are my sealed orders. They must be delivered immediately. Would you see to it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Notes

  Possibly the most dramatic message in the entire Revolutionary War was the one received by General Washington from the French Admiral de Grasse in late July 1781, regarding the movement of the French fleet from the West Indies to Chesapeake Bay. It set the stage for the decisive last major battle, at Yorktown.

  The plan hastily made by General Washington for the movement of a major part of his own army around New York, together with that of General Rochambeau at Rhode Island, was as set forth herein, including the construction of bake-ovens at Chatham, and the moving of amphibious landing craft overland by wagon to help deceive General Clinton. The movement of the French fleet by Admiral de Grasse from the West Indies north to Chesapeake Bay, with Admiral de Barras sailing his small fleet to bring the cannon from General Rochambeau’s abandoned camp at Rhode Island down to the Chesapeake, happened as set forth. While Eli Stroud and the schooner Swallow are fictional, the messages in this chapter carried by each to the waiting generals Lafayette and Greene and to Admiral de Grasse, are actual as set forth. The names of all officers on both sides are accurate, and the role they played is correctly identified (Freeman, Washington, pp. 470–74; see especially the illustration of the entire operation, p. 71; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 380–83; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 639–44; Lumpkin, From Savannah to Yorktown, pp. 222–33).

  John Laurens, son of Henry Laurens, who served as president of the Continental Congress, was sent by Congress to Paris, France, to persuade King Louis XVI to advance more money to the bankrupt United States. For six weeks he was ignored. Finally he marched into the chambers of King Louis unannounced, to demand money, on pain of America joining the British to fight France should it not be forthcoming. He got 2.3 million French livres in supplies, 2.3 million more in money, and a French-guaranteed loan from Holland for 10 million livres (Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 634–36).

  Yorktown, Virginia

  September–October 1781

  CHAPTER XXXII

  * * *

  In the four o’clock a.m. black of a moonless night, Matthew Dunson stood at the bow of the schooner Swallow, grasping the handrail, white-knuckled, scarcely breathing as the tiny ship sped westward across the Virginia Capes toward Chesapeake Bay. The only crew members on deck were Matthew; the first-mate, Sol Gibbons; Captain Nunes; the helmsman standing barefooted at the great wheel; and enough seamen to make instant changes in the sails according to the silent hand signals of Gibbons as he received them from Matthew. The only sounds were the creaking of the masts and yards, and the soft hiss of the bow cutting a fourteen-foot curl in the black sea as the little ship ran full-out, canvas taut, on the easterly night winds, running against the tides.

  Matthew flexed his back against the tension that had been building between his shoulder blades since midnight. That was when he had taken his position to guide the ship to the mouth of the Chesapeake, past Cape Charles and Cape Henry, cross the bay from east to west, and on up the York River to the tiny village of Yorktown on the southern bank, where the French fleet lay anchored. Moving a ship into the bay and then into the tricky channels of the river on a moonless night was work for the best of navigators. Doing it with a British fleet of warships riding at anchor near the mouth of the Chesapeake, only too willing to blast the little ship to splinters, was a thing for desperate men on a desperate mission. It had to be done in total silence, without lights, as hard and fast as the little ship could run, sometimes within yards of some of the British gunboats. For four hours Matthew had stood locked onto the handrails at the bow, pointing left and right, as he worked through the British armada, counting the great gunboats as he passed them, dreading the sound of a voice bellowing a challenge, and the first boom of heavy cannon feeling for the little Swallow in the darkness.

  The thunder of cannon did not come; the peculiar sound of silence on open water held.

  Matthew’s audacious gamble had succeeded—that under cover of darkness he could sail the fast little vessel through the prowling British fleet and into the Chesapeake without detection. Moving quickly and soundlessly, they had avoided the deadly guns, and the British were behind them. It was now on Matthew to remember the crooks and twists and turns in the single channel up the York River that was deep enough to allow seagoing vessels to pass without running aground. He strained to pick out the familiar landmarks in the near-total darkness, and as he raised his arms, left or right, Gibbons instantly signaled the helmsman, who spun the wheel. The little ship responded, trailing a dark zig-zag wake behind in her silent course up the river.

  The gray of coming dawn separated earth from sky, revealing the first sight of the clustered masts of the French fleet. Then the white flags with the beautiful golden fleur-de-lis became visible, moving in the morning breeze. The gunboats of the French squadron anchored in Lynnhaven Bay, clustered around Yorktown, also hove into view. Lights were still shining in the windows of the town when the crew on the Swallow lowered its longboat into the water and dropped the rope ladder over the side.

  Matthew hefted his seabag onto his shoulder and turned to Captain Nunes.

  “I have no idea how long I’ll be, sir, or if I’ll be returning at all, depending on the orders of Admiral de Grasse.”

  “I’ll drop anchor until morning and wait for your signal.”

  “If Admiral de Grasse wants me to stay with his fleet, I suggest you go back the way we came. In the night. I believe Mr. Gibbons can get you out.”

  Nunes bobbed his head. “Agr
eed. Good-bye.”

  Matthew saluted, dropped his bag into the waiting boat, climbed down the rope ladder, and sat as four able seamen threw their backs into the oars. Matthew waved to Nunes and Gibbons, who waved back, and turned to study the French fleet anchored in the river. Yorktown was on the south bank, to his left, with the fishing village of Gloucester half a mile across the river to his right. Just beyond the two villages the river widened to nearly two miles, large enough to accommodate the massive anchorage of the French fleet.

  With the sun turning the eastern skiff of clouds to rose and pink, Matthew began his study of the French ships. How many ships, how many decks, how many cannon, which ships had copper sheeting fastened to their hulls to avoid barnacles and growth that could cut the speed and maneuverability of a ship by one-third? In the midst of his count, his eyes widened in astonishment at the sight of the largest ship he had ever seen. Dead ahead lay a three-decked warship, its bulk slowly rising and falling on the outgoing tides, bristling with one hundred ten heavy guns. He strained to read the name carved into the heavy oak timbers of her bow. Villa de Paris. The flagship of Admiral François Joseph Paul Comte de Grasse. The monster was the largest ship afloat in the world!

  He pointed, and the helmsman took a heading for the great vessel. At their approach the French crew lowered a rope ladder, and Matthew climbed past the three decks of guns and stepped onto the thick planking, followed by one of the seamen, who handed him his seabag, then descended back to the longboat.

  Matthew turned to face the crew of the Villa de Paris, startled at the blaze of color before him. The men wore white uniforms, with crimson lapels and yellow sashes. His impression was that they were more concerned with appearance than substance, an opinion he would soon change. He glanced at the rows of cannon on each side of the main deck, startled to see potted flowers growing between the great guns.

  An officer saluted. “Captain Maurice Yves at your service. I presume you are Matthew Dunson.”

  Matthew returned the salute. “I am, sir. I carry a sealed message from General George Washington, to be delivered to Admiral de Grasse. I presume this is his flagship and that he is aboard.”