Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  “He is, sir, and he is waiting. Follow me.”

  Three minutes later Matthew was standing in the grandest state- room he had ever seen aboard a seagoing vessel. The woodwork was rich, carved, the appointments fit for a palace, the desk a work of art. He came to rigid attention facing a man seated in an upholstered chair.

  “Sir, I am Matthew Dunson, reporting under orders of General George Washington.”

  The man stood, and for a split second Matthew stared. Admiral de Grasse stood six feet six inches tall, broad in the shoulders, handsome, engaging.

  “Ah, yes. I have been expecting you. Be seated.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Matthew sat. “I bear a message from the General.”

  De Grasse accepted the document, broke the seal, and for two full minutes was engrossed in reading and rereading the orders.

  He raised his eyes to Matthew. “Do you know the contents?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Your General has generously offered your services to my fleet to serve as navigator. He suggests you are intimately acquainted with the waters on the east coast of this continent. I presume he is correct?”

  “I know these waters, sir.”

  “You have sailed them?”

  “Many times. From the Grand Banks of Nova Scotia to the far reaches of the West Indies.”

  “You know this river? The York? And the Chesapeake?”

  “Very well.”

  “Have you been a navigator long?”

  “Six years. I was educated at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

  De Grasse’s expression was amiable, cordial, but Matthew could not miss the deadly serious glint in his eyes as he continued.

  “Have you seen combat at sea?”

  “I served with Captain John Paul Jones, sir.”

  De Grasse’s eyes widened in surprise. “Scotland? Ireland? The Serapis off Flamborough Head?”

  “All of them, and other campaigns as well, sir.”

  De Grasse gestured. “Do I assume you might have taken that slight disfigurement on your cheek in a sea battle?”

  “On Lake Champlain, sir. I was with General Arnold when we met the British fleet coming south to attack General Washington from the rear. A cannonball shattered our railing and damaged our mast. I took a splinter of wood.”

  “A most remarkable battle. Most remarkable.” He interlaced his fingers on his desk. “I take it you sailed through the British fleet anchored in the Chesapeake during the night.”

  “Correct, sir. I thought it was the best chance we had. We ran without lights and in silence.”

  De Grasse nodded. “Exceptional. Did you get a count of the British?”

  “No, sir. Not all. It was a new moon. There was no light.”

  “How did you navigate through the British fleet?”

  “Stood at the bow giving silent hand signals. I had a good crew behind me, sir.”

  “You came up the York in the dark? Through the channel?”

  “I’ve been in these waters many times, sir. I know the channels and the shorelines. Darkness was not a problem.”

  De Grasse continued. “Then you know the situation we now find ourselves in.” He paused to select his words. “My orders were to come and make my presence felt at Yorktown, to be certain General Cornwallis cannot get his army off the mainland onto British ships. I arrived before the British fleet and took up a position as you now see us. After my arrival, to my surprise, the British fleet arrived at the Chesapeake, and now lies anchored to the east, in open waters at the mouth of the bay.”

  The huge man paused as though to organize his thoughts. “If General Cornwallis marches his men east, to the Norfolk coast, he can board the waiting British ships, and our fleet could not stop him because we can move our ships east only one at a time, in the river channel, and we could do so only under the guns of most of the British ships now waiting in the Chesapeake. Should Cornwallis succeed in getting onto those ships, the entire campaign General Washington now has in motion will come to nothing and could possibly become a disaster. Do you understand?”

  “I reached the same conclusion coming through the British fleet last night, sir. Might I ask a few questions?”

  “Proceed.”

  “Do you know who commands the British fleet?”

  “I am informed it is Admiral Sir Samuel Graves. Admiral Hood is with him. Possibly Admiral Rodney.”

  For a moment Matthew’s forehead furrowed. “Admiral Graves is cautious to a fault. Follows the manual. If Admirals Hood and Rodney are with him, are you certain one of them is not commander of the entire fleet?”

  De Grasse shook his head. “It’s Graves, on his flagship, the London.”

  “Has he attempted to come up the river to engage you?”

  “No.”

  “How many ships and how many guns does he have?”

  “Nineteen ships and some fourteen hundred cannon.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Twenty-four ships, seventeen hundred cannon.”

  “Slight numerical superiority,” Matthew said. “I understood Admiral de Barras with his small fleet was to eventually join you. Do you know his whereabouts?”

  “The northern tip of the Chesapeake, loading French troops under command of General Rochambeau, to bring them here.” Suddenly Admiral de Grasse smiled, then chuckled. Matthew looked at him inquiringly, and de Grasse explained.

  “Your General Washington was there waiting at Head of Elk when General Rochambeau arrived. We had thought General Washington to be a very, shall we say, dignified officer? Can you imagine the surprise of General Rochambeau upon his arrival when General Washington whipped off his tricorn, plucked a large white handkerchief from his pocket, and danced a jig, waving his hat and handkerchief at General Rochambeau?”

  Matthew’s head jerked forward in disbelief. “General Washington did that?”

  “In the midst of hundreds of troops. Profoundly shocked the lot of them. And when he was introduced to General Rochambeau he threw both arms about the man. Somewhat frightened him.”

  Matthew settled back in his chair, astonished at the image of the General Washington he knew waving his hat and dancing a jig, prior to throwing his arms around anyone, let alone a French general.

  Matthew moved on. “Do you know when Admiral de Barras will set sail to come here?”

  “No. Not the exact date. But soon. Perhaps the next two or three days.”

  “How many of your ships are copper-sheathed? I counted five.”

  “You counted them all. We have five.”

  For a time the men fell into silence while Matthew pieced the puzzle together in his mind.

  “If Admiral de Barras arrives with General Rochambeau’s army while the British still control the Chesapeake, the entire campaign could be lost.”

  “Precisely.”

  Matthew set his jaw for a moment. “That raises the final question. What are your orders, sir, if I may be so bold? Are you to defeat Admiral Graves, or are you to be certain he is prevented from giving General Cornwallis support and a means of escape from the mainland?”

  “My orders are to do whatever is necessary to assure that General Cornwallis does not have support from the sea, or an avenue to escape our land troops, which are coming both from the north and the south to trap him.”

  Matthew nodded. “Then it appears, sir, that there is but one thing to be done. This fleet must move out into the Chesapeake and engage Admiral Grave’s ships, and either defeat them, or drive them far enough away that they cannot be of assistance to General Cornwallis.”

  De Grasse eased back in his chair, eyes locked with Matthew’s. He saw a light in the younger man, and a steadiness, and slowly something began to rise within. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Yes, sir. To reach the Chesapeake from here you’re going to have to move your ships down the river channel in single file. I think it would be a serious mistake if this ship leads. She’s too big. If for
any reason she didn’t make it, nothing behind her could get past. I think the leader will have to be a smaller ship, and one with copper sheeting, so she can move faster and maneuver quicker.”

  “The tides?”

  “They’ll be running with us by tomorrow morning, but the winds will be quartering in from the northeast, against us. We’ll have to tack to get out.”

  “And what will the British be doing while we’re coming out?”

  “One of two things, sir. They’ll enter the bay and anchor about eight of their best ships at the mouth of the river, four on each side, and shell us as we come out, or they’ll wait for us out in the open sea for a battle.”

  De Grasse shook his head. “It is unthinkable that any competent naval officer would miss the opportunity to catch us coming out of the narrow river channel in a single file battle line, tacking slowly into the wind. With eight or ten of his heavier warships anchored at the river’s mouth, he could chop us to pieces, one a time.”

  Matthew nodded. “That’s clear, sir, but there’s always the chance that Admiral Graves will do what he has always done. He lives by the Manual of Naval Operations. The British version says that when ships of the line engage an enemy, they should take battle formation to give each other support, and give their guns maximum access to the enemy. If he follows the manual, he’ll hold his fleet out in the Atlantic, take up a battle line, and wait to engage us out on the open water.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Any other admiral in any navy, I would agree, sir. But Admiral Graves? It’s possible, sir. I’ve read his history. He’s keenly aware of what happened to Thomas Matthews and John Byng about forty years ago for failing to follow the fighting instructions in his manual. Thomas was drummed out of the service, and Byng was shot by a firing squad on his own quarterdeck. There’s a chance—a small one—that Admiral Graves will follow the manual.”

  “And if he doesn’t? If he meets us at the mouth of the river with half his fleet?”

  Matthew stiffened. “Then we fight our way out, sir. Come as fast as we can. Send the five, copper-sheeted ships first and hope they get out and are able to draw off some of the British while the others come on through. Pick the fastest one you have to lead. I volunteer to act as navigator. I can get her through the channel with the least loss of time, and the others can follow. We’ll have to do it in daylight.”

  In that moment something arose inside Admiral de Grasse. Before him sat an intense, apparently capable young man, who was volunteering his life on a scheme to rescue one of the most critical campaigns in the history of the American Revolution, knowing that it would be a miracle if it were to succeed. In that fleeting moment de Grasse was suddenly thirty years younger, feeling once again the rise of hot blood to a challenge, and the incomparable thrill of taking on unbeatable odds in a fight that must be won. He leaned forward, eyes glowing.

  “You’ll lead that first ship out?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll need a good ship, with copper sheeting on the hull, and a dependable captain with battle experience.”

  “Commodore Louis Antoine de Bougainville, commanding the Auguste. I’ll prepare the orders today, and we will leave at first light in the morning.”

  Throughout the day Matthew paced the quarterdeck of the great warship, watching as the French fleet received their written orders and slowly maneuvered into the battle line. With sunset setting their sails afire, they were ready. Matthew strode to the quarters of Admiral de Grasse to say his farewell, and ten minutes later was seated in a longboat as six French sailors rhythmically oared to the side of the Auguste. He climbed the rope ladder, saluted the officer of the deck, and was led to the quarters of Commodore Bougainville.

  The cabin was small and plain. Bougainville was of average height, weathered, wise to the ways of men of ships and the sea, and apparently not inclined to frills. Within twenty minutes Matthew was taking evening mess with the officers of the ship and afterward was shown to his quarters. He was to share the tiny cabin of the first mate, Jean Montreal.

  Matthew dropped his seabag on the foot of his bunk and sat down in the warm quiet of the close quarters. He had not slept for thirty hours. Six of them had been spent in unbearable tension, navigating the tiny Swallow through the British fleet in the black of night. In the deep dusk, he surrendered to his weariness. He removed his boots to drop them thumping on the floor, removed his tunic and shirt, felt in his tunic pocket for the familiar watch fob, and quietly bowed his head to briefly ask the Almighty’s protection on Kathleen and John. Then he lay down on his bunk, and within minutes the friendly, faint rocking of the ship on the outgoing tide had lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  In the darkness preceding dawn, silent French sailors gathered in the mess galleys of the ships to eat a breakfast of hot oatmeal porridge and sausages, then walked out onto the decks of the ships to their duty stations. Every man knew that the battle line they had formed the day before, with the American navigator standing on the bow of the Auguste to lead them out into the bay, meant but one thing. They had delivered their fate into the hands of the hated British. Eight warships flying the Union Jack at the mouth of the James River could sink them all, one at a time. They stood quietly, waiting for the orders that would begin the longest day of their lives.

  Bougainville stood at Matthew’s shoulder. “Are you ready?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The commodore turned to the first mate. “Unfurl all sails. Proceed east to the Chesapeake.”

  “Aye, sir.” Montreal barked the orders, and barefooted sailors in the ropes on the arms jerked the knots free. The canvas dropped, billowing, and expert hands began the slow, tricky work of tacking back and forth, moving with the tides eastward into the morning breeze.

  They had ten miles to go before they would reach the river’s mouth and the open waters of the Chesapeake. Eighty feet overhead, a sailor clung to the handrail of the crow’s nest, telescope in hand, eyes straining to see the first masts of the British fleet that awaited them.

  Sunrise caught the sails, and the heat of the day began to build. Slowly, steadily the Auguste worked its way eastward with Matthew giving hand directions to the helmsman—port, starboard, more, less—as they skirted the sandbars and the snags that could ground or rupture the hull of a ship. Behind them, taking a two-hundred-yard interval, came the remainder of the French fleet, copper-sheeted first, flagship next, and the remaining eighteen vessels spaced out behind.

  With the sun three hours high, the river widened where it emptied into the Chesapeake, and every eye on the Auguste was watching straight ahead, waiting to see if they would live or die. The distance narrowed—half-mile, quarter-mile, two hundred yards—and Matthew turned to peer up at the sailor in the crow’s nest.

  “What do you see?” he called.

  Dead silence gripped every man in the crew as they waited.

  “Nothing, sir. Not one mast. Not one ship.”

  A roar erupted among the crew.

  Matthew and Bougainville stared at each other, confounded, disbelieving that Graves had failed in his golden chance to destroy the French fleet as they emerged from the river. Neither could recall such a colossal blunder in the history of navies. Matthew closed his eyes and drew and released a great breath, then called once more.

  “Can you see across the bay? Cape Charles on the north and Cape Henry on the south of the mouth of the bay, out into the Atlantic?”

  The seaman clamped his telescope to his eye and for thirty seconds glassed everything ahead before he cupped his hand and shouted, “I can, sir. Nothing. There is no ship in sight.”

  Again a shout erupted from the crew to roll out across the waters.

  Matthew turned to Bougainville. “Graves could not get out of the British Manual! He has to be out in open water with his fleet formed into a battle line. Impossible!”

  He turned to the helmsman. “Steady as she goes, dead ahead.”

  They held their course, tacking east, slowly but stead
ily across the Chesapeake, and started through the mouth of the bay, between Cape Charles and Cape Henry, watching in the bright sunlight for the first movement on the open water.

  It came as they cleared Cape Charles. The lookout in the crow’s nest threw up his arm and called out: “There, sir! Dead ahead, two miles. Looks like the whole British fleet formed into a battle line.”

  Instantly Matthew spun toward Bougainville. “We’re clear of the bay, sir. Open deep water before us. The ship is yours for whatever maneuvers you deem appropriate. Request permission to join a gun crew.”

  Bougainville shook his head. “You remain here at my side. I may need help reading the British signal flags.” He turned to shout orders. “Helmsman! Take a heading twenty degrees to port, north of the leading British ship. We must get upwind of them, then turn to starboard for the engagement.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The helmsman spun the six-foot wheel, and the ship swung to port, bearing left of the British line, intending to proceed parallel to them before turning starboard, directly into them, for the battle. The four ships behind the Auguste, all copper-sheeted, distanced those behind as they sped on.

  Thirty seconds passed before the British line of ships set all sails to the wind and came head-on, running at top speed. Matthew watched the British signal flags like a hawk, waiting to see what orders Graves would give. He saw the single white flag raised to the top of the mainmast and turned to Bougainville.

  “White flag. It means ‘line ahead.’ He means to hold his ships in line to start his attack.”

  Bougainville turned to the helmsman. “Steady as she goes. Let them come to us.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The four ships following Bougainville fell into battle line behind the Auguste and held their course as they passed the leaders in the British line, out of cannon range, but angling to starboard to engage. Then, suddenly, Matthew gaped! The British flagship London, commanded by Admiral Graves, slowed and came to a dead stop in the water! For reasons never known, Graves had delivered the initiative into the hands of the incredulous Bougainville.