“Will there be a battle?” he asked.
“I don’t suppose so,” Abigail lied.
“Will my father come to protect us?”
“General Clinton has all the soldiers we need.”
“I still wish Father would come,” said Weston.
But strangely, nothing happened. The long days of August passed. The city was tense, but still the French and American allies made no move. They seemed to be waiting for something.
And then, late in the month, they suddenly went away. The French troops, the main body of Washington’s forces, the big French fleet, they all went off together. Evidently, there had been a change of plan.
“Perhaps they have decided New York is too difficult to take,” Abigail suggested. But her father shook his head.
“There’s only one explanation,” he said. “They think they can trap Cornwallis.”
But the fate of the British Empire did not rest upon the army. It never had. It never would. It was the British Navy that controlled the oceans, supplied the soldiers, and saved them when in need.
At the end of August, a dozen ships arrived in New York harbor. Admiral Rodney, a first-rate leader, had command. “But he’s only brought twelve ships,” Master complained. “We need the whole fleet.”
Learning of the threat to Cornwallis, and adding twelve New York warships to his own, Rodney set off at once for the Chesapeake. But it was not long before the sails appeared again in the bay, and his ships limped back into the harbor.
“There weren’t enough of them, Abigail. De Grasse beat them off,” her father said. “Rodney’s ready to try again, but he’ll have to refit.”
Meanwhile, a squadron of French vessels from the French base at Newport had appeared, waiting to pounce, out in the bay.
The refitting of the British ships was slow. They’d suffered considerable damage.
“Clinton’s heard from Cornwallis,” Master reported. “It seems he’s trapped all right, and he can’t get out.”
But still the shipwrights took their time, and it wasn’t until mid-October that the fleet set out again.
James Master stared toward Yorktown. It was just a small place, with modest docks, on the edge of the York River. Across the river lay a much smaller British encampment on Gloucester Point. The French and Patriot forces had Cornwallis enclosed in a large semicircle. If he had been stronger, he would have held four outlying redoubts that dominated his lines. But he had reckoned he couldn’t hold them, and so these were already occupied by the allies.
And allies they certainly were. When the French general, Rochambeau, had first met with Washington, he had immediately, and courteously, placed himself under his command. Washington in turn had taken every decision with him jointly. The French in their smart white coats were on the left of the semicircle, Washington’s Continentals wore blue coats, when they had them, and the militias were in rough clothing. Without reinforcements from the North, Cornwallis’s Southern army of red-coated British and Prussian-blue Hessians now totaled six thousand men. The allies had over sixteen thousand.
The siege had started at the end of September, and it had been going on for two weeks now. Five days ago, firing the first gun himself, Washington had begun the bombardment. It had been steady and effective. The British were being slowly blown to bits, but the bombardment was still long-range. Now the time had come to move the lines forward and bring the bombardment closer. To do that, it would be necessary to storm the inner line of redoubts.
The plan that Washington had prepared was somewhat devious. All day the usual bombardment had continued, then, at half past six in the evening, a party of French was to make a diversionary move against one of the redoubts to the west. Soon after, the army was to begin what looked like a general attack on the Yorktown lines. Only when the enemy was thoroughly alarmed and confused was the real move to be made.
A pair of moves, actually. Two parties of men, each four hundred strong, were to rush redoubts numbers 9 and 10, which lay close to the river on the eastern side. Redoubt 9 would be attacked by the French; number 10 by the Patriots. The attack would be led by Alexander Hamilton, and with Lafayette’s permission, James Master was to accompany him.
So now James was waiting, glad of the chance of action—indeed, he could scarcely remember when he’d been more excited. The attack would certainly be bloody. The men had their bayonets fixed, and a number were also carrying axes to break through the redoubt’s defenses.
The evening was drawing closer, but there was still plenty of light. Across the lines, he saw the French diversion begin. He looked at the faces of the men. The wait might be a little fearful, but when the moment for the rush forward began, everything else would be forgotten. There were only minutes to wait now. He could feel the blood coursing in his veins.
He became aware of the lines of troops right across the battlefield beginning to maneuver. What a terrifying sight that must be, seen from the battered British lines. He waited for the signal. The minutes seemed eternal. In his hand he held his sword. He also had two loaded pistols. He waited. And then the signal came.
They were off. It wasn’t far to the redoubt, only a hundred and fifty yards. How strange. They were charging yet it seemed as if everything was moving so slowly. The British defenders had seen them. Fire crackled out, and he heard a musket ball hiss by his head, yet scarcely noticed. The high earthwork walls of the redoubt were looking up before him now. They were rushing the outer defenses, the men hacking at the fencework with axes and bursting through. They got across a big ditch, started to clamber up the parapet. He saw a British helmet in front of him, pressed toward it, ready to strike the man down. But a trooper was just ahead of him, lunging with his bayonet.
As he came over the parapet, there seemed to be redcoats everywhere. They were falling back, trying to get off a volley. Speed was the thing. Without another thought he rushed forward, aware that there were three or four other fellows close by his side. A redcoat was just lifting his gun as James thrust his sword, as hard as he could, into the fellow’s stomach just below the chest. He felt the steel burst through the thick material of the uniform, then strike into the backbone behind. Raising his foot against the body, he dragged the sword out before the redcoat fell.
The next few moments were so confused, he hardly knew what he was doing himself. The redoubt seemed to be a jostling mass of bodies, and the sheer weight of the attacking numbers seemed to be pushing the redcoats back. He found himself beside a tent, worked his way round it, found a redcoat in front of him with a bayonet which he parried aside, while another of his own men ran the redcoat through. Strangely, the tent seemed to act like a magic barrier in the middle of the hubbub. Coming to the tent flap, he found it open. A British officer, who must have just been wounded, had staggered in there and was lying on the ground. Blood was coming from his leg. His helmet was off, and James saw a tangled mass of hair. He took out his pistol, and the officer turned, clearly expecting death.
It was Grey Albion. He stared at James, astonished, but he didn’t smile. This was battle after all.
“Well, James,” he said evenly, “if someone’s going to kill me, I’d rather it was you.”
James paused. “If you surrender,” he said coldly, “you’re my prisoner. If not, I shoot. Those are the rules.”
Albion glanced around. The fighting seemed to have moved beyond the tent as the British were falling back. There would be no help from that quarter. His sword was on the ground beside him, but his leg was wounded and James was armed. Unless James’s pistol misfired, he had no options. He sighed.
And then James spoke again. “One other matter. You are to leave my sister alone. You are to cease from all correspondence with her and you are never to see her again. Do you understand?”
“I love her, James.”
“Choose.”
“If I refuse?”
“I shoot. No one will be any the wiser.”
“Hardly the word of a gentleman.”
<
br /> “No.” James pointed the pistol at his head. “Choose. I require your word.”
Albion hesitated. “As you wish,” he said at last. “You have my word.”
With the redoubts taken, Cornwallis’s camp was open to close bombardment. Two days later, he tried to break out and get troops across the river, but stormy weather prevented him. Three days after that, on October 19, having no other option, he surrendered. As his troops marched out, they played the dance tune “Derry Down.”
On November 19, 1781, a ship came into New York from Virginia. On board was no less a person than Lord Cornwallis himself. While his troops had been held in transports, the general had negotiated a release on parole, so that he could go to London to explain himself.
Awaiting a vessel to England, he retired to a house in the town where he busied himself with correspondence. He certainly hadn’t come to New York to enjoy its society. Relations between himself and General Clinton were said to be strained. If Clinton thought Cornwallis had been rash, Cornwallis could point out that he had obeyed instructions from London, and considered that Clinton had not done enough to support him. In the wake of the disaster, both men were preparing their cases.
The same ship also carried a letter from James. It was affectionate and full of news. It seemed that Washington had considered following the victory of Yorktown with a strike against New York that might have ended the war there and then. But Admiral de Grasse was anxious to go and do more damage to the British in the Caribbean. “So I dare say,” he wrote, “that I shall be spending some more weeks sitting outside the gates of New York, and thinking of my home and my dear family within as I do so.” He seemed to believe, nonetheless, that the end of the war must now be in sight.
He then gave them some account of the events at Yorktown, and the attacks on the redoubts. The next part of his letter, her father handed to Abigail without a word.
And now I must give you sad news. As we stormed the redoubt, the British fought bravely, none more so than a British officer whom I only realized toward the end of the engagement, when he fell, to be Grey Albion. He was not killed, though badly wounded, and was carried by us back to our lines, along with the prisoners we took. There he was well looked after. But, sadly, his condition was such that he was not thought likely to recover. I have just returned to the camp to be told, to my great sorrow, that two days ago he died.
Abigail read it over twice, then hurried from the room.
By the early days of 1782, New York had resumed its usual quiet. Cornwallis was already in London. General Clinton wondered if a mass uprising of American militias might sweep into the city, but as winter turned to spring, the Patriots seemed to be sitting tight. Though whether James was right in supposing that the war would soon be over, or whether London would decide some new, bold initiative, nobody could guess.
“We shall just have to await the king’s pleasure,” said Master wearily.
Or the king’s displeasure, as it turned out.
In the last election, though King George had faced opposition from many Members of Parliament who were dissatisfied with the conduct of the war, he had still managed, by the usual means of patronage, promotion and honest bribery, to secure a solid majority in his favor. It had cost him a hundred thousand pounds.
But even in the best-organized legislatures, there comes a point where votes can no longer be bought. And when Parliament heard that York-town was lost and the whole of Cornwallis’s army taken, the king’s majority crumbled. Even Lord North, faithful to his royal brother though he was, threw in the towel. The ministry fell. The opposition were in. That spring the Patriots sent four clever men—Ben Franklin, John Jay, John Adams and Henry Laurens—to join the peace negotiations with the powers of France, Spain, the Dutch and the British, whose commissioners were gathering, in Paris.
For Abigail, it remained a sad time. She thought often of Albion. It was lucky that she had Weston to occupy her—that was a blessing—and her father also tried to find ways of distracting her. General Clinton returned to London, but his replacement was a decent man, and the life of the British garrison continued more or less as before. There were young officers, especially from the Navy, in the city, and her father told her it would be ill-mannered not to attend their occasional parties. But she could not take much pleasure in their company.
Occasionally, those she met aroused her curiosity. One of the king’s sons, hardly more than a boy, was serving as a midshipman on one of the vessels stationed at New York. He was a pleasant, eager young fellow, and she observed him with some interest. But he was hardly much company for her. More to her liking was a fresh-faced naval officer, only a few years older than herself, yet already a captain, whose merits, as well as his family connections, promised him the chance of rapid promotion. Had she not been grieving for Albion, she might have been glad of the attention of Captain Horatio Nelson.
Master also encouraged her to be busy. As it happened, that summer, a new and interesting business opened up. For as more and more of the Tory merchants of New York concluded that they had no more future there, and prepared to ship out, whole households of goods came up for sale. Hardly a week went by when her father did not ask her to inspect a sale for him. She found china and glass, fine furniture, curtains, rugs to be had at knock-down prices. After advising her father on a few of these sales, he said to her: “I leave it all in your hands now, Abigail. Buy as you think best, and let me have an accounting.” As the months went by, she had so much inventory that the only problem was where to store it. The prices were so low that she felt almost guilty.
By the fall season, quite a number of Patriots were returning to the city to claim their property. If they found soldiers living in their house, there were often some hard words spoken. But there was little violence. Winter passed quietly enough, and in spring came news that all hostilities between the British and the Patriots had ended. As more Patriots came into the city, and Loyalists prepared to leave, Abigail knew of a score of houses where angry Patriots had just walked in and taken over. Meanwhile, the Patriot Governor Clinton of New York was still eagerly dispossessing as many Loyalists as he could.
It was at this time that James appeared. He still had duties to perform with Washington, he explained, but he could stay with them two days. Weston was overjoyed, and the family passed some happy hours together. James and his father quickly agreed that Master should make over the house and other city property to him, so that they could not be confiscated as Loyalist possessions, and this was speedily done with a lawyer.
On the second afternoon, the family were walking together on Broadway when they encountered Charlie White. Their greeting was friendly enough, but they could see that Charlie was looking a little glum.
“Anything you need, Charlie?” Master inquired.
“Not unless you’ve got a house,” said Charlie sadly. “Mine was burned down.”
“Come round tomorrow,” said Master quietly, “and we’ll see if something can be arranged.”
The next day Charlie owned a house in Maiden Lane. And Abigail saw to it that the house was well furnished, and had better china and glass in it than Charlie ever dreamed of.
If Abigail had silently grieved for Grey Albion for many months, the pain gradually began to subside. She had to reflect that many had lost fathers and husbands. It was a tiny incident that caused her to realize that her own wound was healing. It was occasioned that summer by another visit from James. He came, this time, with a friend.
“Allow me to present my comrade-in-arms from the French Army, the Count de Chablis.”
The young Frenchman was a delightful person. He was as beautifully turned out as a new pin, and he seemed delighted with New York, and indeed, by all the world around him. His English was not good, but understandable. And by the end of the day, she had to confess, she was entirely charmed.
“Your friend is so agreeable, it’s hard to imagine him fighting,” she remarked to James, when they were alone.
“It’s just his aristocratic manner,” he replied. “Lafayette is rather the same. Chablis is actually brave as a lion.”
They stayed two days and, by the end of that time, she found herself rather regretting that the count was soon to leave for France.
It was during that visit also, however, that she learned to appreciate the business shrewdness of her father. For after dinner on the first day, after the count had retired and they were sitting in the parlor together, James produced a piece of paper and handed it to her father. “I thought you might be interested in this,” he said.
It was a letter from Washington, to the Patriot governor of New York.
I understand, my dear sir, that you have confiscated the estates of the Tory, John Master, of New York. I should be vastly obliged if you would convey those lands to Colonel James Master, who would otherwise have inherited them, and who has, from first to last, during these long years, done our cause the greatest service.
His father smiled. “You’re made a colonel now, I see. My congratulations.”
“Thank you, Father. I’m afraid Washington’s letter didn’t do me much good, though. The farms have already been sold and I shall have a devil of a job getting them back.”
“In that case,” said his father, “I have something to show you.” And rising from the table, he returned a couple of minutes later with a pile of papers, which he handed to his son. James looked at them with surprise.
“This is Patriot money, Father.”
New York Page 41