Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  It was in his power to strike the blow that could end the war and secure for his beloved America the victory that had so long eluded him and the liberty that would follow. In his heart was a silent prayer—Almighty Ruler of the Universe, let it come to pass.

  The following morning, Washington’s written orders were distributed to the commanders—French, German, and American. Two days later, every camp was established, and every man understood his assignment.

  In General Lincoln’s American camp that anchored the east end of the siege line, Billy Weems dropped to his haunches with his evening plate of hot food in hand. Next to him, Sergeant Alvin Turlock tested the hot stew, sucked his singed tongue, and stuffed a healthy chunk of thick, brown bread in his mouth.

  “Looks like we’re goin’ to be diggin’ for a while. This siege business is just two things: dig trenches and listen to cannon. Day and night. Just keep diggin’ trenches zig-zag towards the enemy, and keep movin’ the guns, squeezin’ tighter and tighter like a big snake. Can’t sleep nights because the guns don’t quit at dark—just keep bangin’ away.”

  Billy nodded. “Better than a bayonet attack. Likely saves a lot of men.”

  Turlock nodded. “It does. But it sure wears a body out—all that diggin’ and no sleep. We better bed down early as long as we can. When them guns start, there’s no sleepin’ ’til she’s over.”

  Billy remained silent for a moment. “Wonder where Eli is.”

  Turlock paused. “I been thinkin’ the same thing. Not like him to just not come back.”

  They finished their evening mess, cleaned camp, and went to their tents. The drummer banged out taps, the lights went out, and for a time Billy lay on his blanket, eyes open, mind running. I hope Eli’s all right—I hope so—I wish I knew—Was Matthew with the French fleet that beat the British?—Was he?—And Caleb—Is he here somewhere?

  A quarter mile southwest, in the camp commanded by General Lafayette, Eli Stroud lay on his blanket in the blackness, sorting out his thoughts. General Washington had ordered him to deliver the message to Lafayette weeks ago, and then remain with him. He had followed the orders faithfully, marching with Lafayette’s column from southern Virginia to the York River when the order came from Washington to gather at Yorktown. It seemed that most of the Continental Army and half the French army had arrived at the same time. Was Billy with the Continentals?—If he is, with which command? He turned on his side. I’ll find him—he has to be here, and I’ll find him, sooner or later. Weariness came over him, and he drifted for a time, with the image of Mary in his mind, and then that of an infant with Mary’s dark eyes and dark hair. A beautiful infant he had left behind in the far reaches of the north, with his sister. I’ll be back—I’ll finish here and I’ll find Billy—and I’ll go back to Laura and Ben and Lydia. His last thought before sleep was of Mary.

  Days and nights blurred into an unending round of digging siege trenches in the peculiar zig-zag pattern, so enemy riflemen could not command a field of fire the length of any one trench. At night, sweating in the moist heat, men laboriously moved the big guns ever closer to the British outer line.

  Then, on September 29, General Cornwallis received a message from General Clinton.

  “My Lord: At a meeting of the General and Flag officers held this day, it is determined that above five thousand men, rank and file, shall be embarked on board the King’s ships, and the joint exertions of the navy and army made in a few days to relieve you, and afterwards cooperate with you. The fleet consists of twenty-three sail of the line, three of which are three-deckers. There is every reason to hope we start from hence the fifth of October.”

  Relief flooded through Cornwallis. Help was on the way! Quickly he reviewed his plans to defend Yorktown and made one key adjustment. With ample help to arrive within the week, it would be prudent to strengthen his inner lines by abandoning his outer lines. All his men could hold the inner lines for at least one week. Quickly he gave orders. “Abandon the outer lines. Draw everything to the inner line of defense.”

  The morning of September 30, a stunned General Washington discovered the outer defenses of the British to be abandoned. How could that be? What was the reason? He wasted no time with unanswerable questions. He issued his orders:

  “Advance immediately to occupy the outer line of defense, now abandoned by the British.”

  Before nightfall, the Americans were in the British trenches, behind the breastworks, peering at easy cannon range at the inner line of defenses, and just beyond, at the small village.

  On October 2, General Washington realized the British encampment on the Gloucester side of the river could become a thorn, gouging the Americans at will. He ordered French General de Choisy to lead an attack force to take the British camp out of commission, one way or another. De Choisy handpicked a fighting force of riflemen trained to fight in the South, and on the morning of October 3, crossed the river well above the fishing village of Gloucester Point. Among those in the lead of his small command was a young, clear-eyed American named Caleb Dunson, carrying a Deckhard rifle, wanting nothing more than to engage the British. Beside him stood a determined Primus, rifle in hand.

  What was not known at the time was that the British encampment at Gloucester was commanded by Colonel Banastre Tarleton.

  The small force of Americans hit the British camp at sunup, screaming like insane men, and in ten seconds half of them recognized the green uniforms of Tarleton’s command. They ripped into the British, dodging from tree to tree, firing, running while they reloaded, firing again with those deadly rifles. Caleb dropped to one knee behind a log, watching everything ahead that moved, trying to find the great green plume that would mark Tarleton, but it was not there.

  Tarleton’s men made one vain effort to take a stand, then broke and scattered. There was nothing to be gained by chasing them, so de Choisy ordered his band to stop at the British camp and make it their own. Tarleton had escaped once again, but his fighting force never got back into the siege of Yorktown.

  Caleb and Primus walked to the fire in the center of the camp where hot coffee still boiled. Caleb took a cup thrown down by a fleeing British soldier, poured, and sipped at it, wondering. Is Billy around somewhere? And Matthew? Was Matthew with the French fleet that drove the British out?

  He dropped to his haunches, rifle nearby. I’ll find out before this is over.

  October 6, work concluded on the first of the heavy gun emplacements, and the first of the French cannon were dragged into place two days later. October 9, the big guns roared, and the huge cannonballs ripped into the British breastworks.

  Everything was in place. The siege had begun.

  The following morning the great American battery to the right was finished. The Americans gathered about, standing at attention as General Washington took his place next to the huge cannon. A major handed him the smoking linstock, Washington inspected it for a moment, and turned his eyes momentarily toward Yorktown. On his face was the most satisfied look ever seen by any of his officers.

  He touched the smoking linstock to the touchhole, the big gun bucked and roared, and the Americans were into the siege.

  October 11, Cornwallis wrote a dark message to Clinton.

  “We have lost about seventy of our men and many of our works are considerably damaged: with such works on disadvantageous ground, against so powerful an attack we cannot hope to make a very long resistance. P. S. 5:00 p.m. Since my letter was written at 12 M., we have lost thirty men. . . . We continue to lose men very fast.”

  Clinton received the message and went into shock. The repairs on Graves’s fleet had been delayed and were far more extensive than anticipated. By working crews night and day, he might effect repairs by October 15. But on that day the tides and winds would be against him. The earliest he could hope to send the promised help to the desperate Cornwallis would be beyond October 17. He gave orders and tried to control his worst fears.

  At the American camp near the York River, Turlo
ck turned to Billy in the deep purple of dusk. To the west, the roar of the great siege guns never ceased, and the muzzle flashes were a constant kaleidoscope of orange and yellow color lighting the river and the camps beneath the dark heavens.

  “Getting tired of this.”

  Billy opened his mouth to answer, then stopped at the sight of a messenger running toward the tent of General Lincoln.

  “Something’s happened,” Billy murmured.

  Turlock raised his head, looking about. “What?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Twenty minutes later a captain motioned to Billy and two other lieutenants and led them to a campfire near his tent.

  “I’m Captain Deevers. Those two British redoubts over by the river. They’re shelling the French. General Washington’s decided to take them by storm. The French are going to take the one on the left—Number Nine—and we’re going to take the one on the right—Number Ten. Tomorrow morning before dawn. Colonel Alexander Hamilton will be in command. I’ll lead my company, and you’re to join me with yours. Get your men ready. Ammunition, bayonets, and some rest.”

  Turlock snorted. “In this racket?”

  The captain grinned. “We leave from here at four o’clock in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The men sensed it like a scent in the air. Taking the redoubts was somehow going to end the battle. Carefully they counted out cartridges and placed them in their cartridge boxes on their belts. They checked the flints in their musket hammers and snapped open the frizzens to be certain they would not jam. None felt like eating, but they drank from their worn wooden canteens. Then they sought their tents and tried to shut out the incessant booming of the big guns while they closed their eyes, most of them sitting up, trying to sleep.

  Turlock spoke. “You seen them redoubts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look like a porcupine, with all them pointed logs stickin’ out. And that ditch around the bottom. We got to get across that ditch, then climb up to them logs and get over them, right into the British inside. They’ll be up there with grapeshot and muskets and bayonets. Sounds like a real party.”

  Billy was quiet for a time. “If we catch them by surprise, we’ll make it.”

  “Not all of us.”

  Billy shook his head. “We’ll make it.”

  The guns boomed, and the muzzles lit up the skies, and the ground shook through the night. At three thirty a.m. Billy was on his feet.

  “Time to move. Form into rank and file. We leave in half an hour.”

  The men took their places, silent, their faces blank in the light of the unending gun flashes.

  At four o’clock, Deevers walked past them and spoke to Billy. “Keep low, and don’t make a sound. Surprise is on our side.”

  The column marched north across the bridge that spanned Wormley Creek, then flanked hard left, directly to the American trenches and breastworks. They passed over them and continued due west, parallel to the river, forty yards to their right. The muzzle flashes of the American and French cannon cast the entire town and most of the breastworks in unending moments of eerie light. To their left, caught in the yellow flashes, the Americans saw the French, one hundred fifty yards away, crouched low, working their way toward Redoubt Nine.

  It seemed but a moment until Deevers raised a hand and the column stopped. Ahead, on high ground, was the gun emplacement with the ugly sharpened spears thrusting outward to impale any attackers. Above the spears were the muzzles of the British cannon. Faint silhouettes of British regulars were seen in the gun flashes, between the cannon, muskets ready, bayonets mounted.

  “Ready?”

  Billy nodded. “Let’s go.”

  The captain stood and shouted, “Take the redoubt!” and sprinted forward. Billy was right behind him, Turlock to his right, while his command of men, with the others, charged forward, shouting in the din of the big guns. They had not yet reached the wide ditch that circled the base of the redoubt when the first muskets blasted down at them from above. A few men stumbled and went down. Billy leaped into the ditch and frantically clambered up the far side, coming up under the sharpened stakes. Desperately he seized the first one with his hands, and threw his back into it. Slowly it loosened from its mount, and once again Billy wrenched outward. It came with a jerk, and he threw it behind him to scramble through the hole it left, up to the level of the cannon and the British defenders, shouting, “Follow me—we’ve breached the wall.”

  A British regular lunged over the breastwork, bayonet poised, and Billy caught the big Brown Bess musket with one hand and the front of the soldier’s tunic with the other. In one thrust he lifted the man over the wall and threw him over the top of his head. A cannoneer trying to turn the cannon toward Billy was silhouetted by a distant gunflash, and Billy leaped. He caught the muzzle of the gun, ducked to get his shoulder beneath it, and heaved upward with all his strength. The terrified gunner watched the big gun tip upward and topple backward into the redoubt. Horrified at the strength of the man before him, he turned on his heel and leaped back inside the redoubt to run.

  Billy had not looked back, but he could hear his men, and those of the other command inside the redoubt behind him, and he could see the wild face-to-face, hand-to-hand fight going on all around him. To his right he saw a British gunner reaching with a linstock, too far to reach, and he seized a fallen musket too late as the cannon blasted. Flame leaped ten feet from the muzzle, and in the flash Billy saw Turlock too close to the gun and he saw the little man throw his hands upward as he went down, limp.

  “Turlock,” Billy screamed, but he could not stop to go to him. He swung the musket like a club, knocking regulars back, smashing them with his fist to keep them down.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. What was left of the British threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees, hands raised high. A great shout rose from the Americans as Billy spun and climbed over bodies and wreckage to find Turlock.

  He was unconscious, limp, covered with dirt. Billy gathered him up and carried him to a clear place to lay him down. In the first light of approaching dawn he turned the bearded head, and gritted his teeth. The cannon blast had burned the hair from the right side of his head, along with his beard, eyelashes, and eyebrows. A trickle of blood from his ear stained his neck. His face was blistered and pitted by burning gunpowder. Billy pressed his fingers under the jaw and felt the slow, irregular pulse.

  At that moment a great shout came from the south. The French had taken Redoubt Number Nine.

  A hand touched Billy’s shoulder, and Captain Deevers knelt beside him. “Yours?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Dead?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get help.” Before he rose, Deevers looked Billy in the face. “I never saw anything like it—the way you threw that cannon and those men. We took the redoubt.”

  Billy nodded. “Get help. I’m staying with Turlock.”

  Deevers gave orders, and a man broke into a run, back toward the American hospital near Lafayette’s headquarters. Billy carefully lifted the still Turlock and carried him out the back of the redoubt, down the incline, and turned to walk south, toward the road leading to the American hospital. The messenger came to meet him with two doctors, and they helped carry Turlock back to the hospital, where they began the work of saving what they could. Billy sat nearby, refusing to leave.

  The sun was half-risen when Cornwallis understood what had happened. The fall of Redoubts Nine and Ten had opened his left flank to the Americans. In desperation he cast about for a remedy, and in that strange world where desperate minds conceive things that are impossible, concluded he must cross the York River that night, fight through the Americans who had driven Tarleton away, and lead his men north to New York in quick, forced marches.

  He issued his orders to disbelieving officers.

  By four o’clock in the muggy afternoon, clouds were forming to the west, over the
Chesapeake. By six o’clock the world was locked in thick, gray clouds and dead air. By eight o’clock the first winds began, and the first giant raindrops came slanting. By midnight, with Cornwallis’s troops in longboats, laboring to cross the river, the wind was a shrieking demon, whipping the river into ten-foot crests beneath sheets of rain. Cornwallis could do nothing else but call his men back.

  The following morning, the French and Americans once more opened up with their heavy guns, an unending, fearsome cannonade. There was no answering British fire. They had no more ammunition.

  The siege had worked perfectly.

  At noon a British drummer boy appeared on a parapet and beat out the signal for a parley. He could not be heard in the thunder of the guns, but he could be seen. Washington ordered a cease-fire and waited. A British officer advanced toward the American lines, and an American ran out to blindfold him and lead him to Washington’s headquarters.

  The red-coated officer handed Washington a document and stood at rigid attention, waiting while Washington studied Cornwallis’s proposed terms for a surrender.

  A twenty-four-hour armistice, with the condition that what remained of Cornwallis’s army be paroled back to England.

  Washington shook his head and took quill and ink to write out his response. A two-hour armistice, and every man under Cornwallis’s command would be taken and held in America as a prisoner of war. Nothing less.

  The officer accepted the document, was escorted back to no-man’s-land, and released. Forty minutes later he again appeared and was once more blindfolded to be led to Washington.