Isaac preferred to clean his own cuts and bumps, possibly on account of the rather severe look given to him by Curzon. That freed me to clean the cuts on Curzon’s brow, his knuckles, and his split lip. As I washed the dirt from his wounds, and he grunted and tried not to complain, the lads told and told again the stories of the night before, whilst Ruth served a second round of my apple and turnip pies, which Bram dubbed “Isabel’s Irresistible Victuals.”
Our men had attacked redoubt 10, and a French company of a similar size had attacked redoubt 9 at the same time. I could tell he was softening the description of the action, thinking to spare me the worst of the details. Of the eight hundred attackers, twenty-four were killed and more than one hundred were wounded–broken ribs, bones shattered by musketballs, and limbs and bellies torn open by bayonets.
As soon as the redoubts were in our possession, thousands of men attacked the second parallel with shovels and pickaxes, digging like an army of moles through the night. The dawn shone down on the second parallel completed from the west end to the east, where it led direct to our newly captured redoubts. Before the sun had even warmed the ground, men were dragging cannons to the redoubts. They were pointed at Yorktown.
The captain of our company, older than most and wealthy enough to own three changes of uniform, visited our cook fire for the very first time to check on Curzon and Isaac. He brought rum, at Henry’s suggestion, to ease the painful work of the cleaning and sewing of the bayonet wound.
“I buttered him like a parsnip, I did,” Henry whispered to me as the captain shared a few words with the heroes of the redoubt. “Filled him with tales of the lads’ glory. He’s sending along enough for the entire company this eve.”
Ruth and I fetched the morning bread whilst the captain and lads exchanged tales of the night’s work. By the time we returned, Henry had gotten Curzon well muddy in drink. As I approached him, armed with needle, thread, and steaming-hot bandages, he gave me a lopsided smile and slurred, “Did I tell you we won, darling Isabel?”
The things he shouted during my assault on his wound do not bear repeating. I made the stitches deep, necessary close together, and tight as could be. When the sewing was done, I asked the lads to hold him fast as I poured the rest of the still-warm vinegar on the needlework I’d stitched into his wound. ’Tis thought that the sharp tang of hot vinegar balances the humors within a wound and so helps with the healing.
“I thought you wanted me alive!” he roared.
I winked at him. “Seems I got my wish.”
* * *
Everything happened right quick after that.
Henry explained the facts mathematical to me. The cannons positioned at the first parallel had needed to fire six hundred yards to hit the enemy, he said. From the second parallel the distance was less than half of that. The guns on the second parallel fired a constant cannonade against Yorktown, an attack so violent, all wondered how any living thing could survive it.
By midday Monday Curzon’s knee had swollen to the size of a sheep’s head and was as hard and unmovable as a stone. I sent Drury in search of one-eyed Cristena, for she knew where leeches could be found in the marsh. He brought back a half dozen of the tiny, writhing creatures, which happily attached themselves to Curzon’s knee. The sight of it made him puke up his breakfast. By the time darkness fell, the leeches had gorged themselves and dropped to the dirt. Thanks to the leeches, the swelling of the knee was so much reduced that I no longer feared it would split open. I stayed with him through the night, putting on fresh poultices and forcing him to drink willow bark tea. Come morning, his knee was soft as a boiled apple, tender but not fatal.
Between the knee and the arm Curzon was greatly pained, tho’ he thought he was actor enough to hide it from us. He tried to stand as the other fellows went off to patrol for foolish British soldiers.
The entire company ordered him to fasten his backside to the ground.
* * *
Tuesday was gray and unsettled.
Wednesday dawned cold and wet, but the air quickly filled with laughter that spread from tent to tent, cook fire to cook fire, until the camp was roaring with delight at the news: Lord Cornwallis had tried to escape in the night . . . and failed.
His plan had been to row his entire army across the river. It was not a frightful distance, but as the evacuation began, the most extraordinary storm of pelting rain and violent wind boiled up and prevented the boats from crossing. It called to mind the night of the Battle of Brooklyn years earlier, when a thick fog rolled in that allowed the Patriot forces to escape capture by the British. God always seemed to provide favorable weather for the Americans, folks said. That was the sign that He supported General Washington and our fight for liberty.
Later that day, as I was sewing the tear in Curzon’s sleeve made by the British bayonet, the world fell silent. Seemed as if a gigantical velvet cloak had somehow been thrown over all the things that made noise: cannons, drums, wagon wheels, hammers, saws, calling voices, shouts, and laughter.
“Run to the regiment headquarters and ask what news,” Curzon said.
I picked my skirts up and took a few steps, but he called after me, “Stop! Come back!”
“You cannot have it both ways,” I said.
He motioned to Ruth to help him stand. “I must go with you.”
“You can barely stand,” I said.
“I could lean on you.”
He put his good arm over my shoulders, gritted his teeth, and took a step. Before he could take a second, Drury and Bram appeared, running, waving their hats and hollering.
“The British have surrendered!”
CHAPTER XLIII
Friday, October 19, 1781
OH, GOD! IT IS ALL OVER!
–REACTION OF BRITISH PRIME MINISTER LORD NORTH TO THE NEWS OF CORNWALLIS’S DEFEAT AT YORKTOWN
THE BRITISH DID NOT HAVE the courtesy to be on time for their own ceremony of surrender. The waiting allied forces lined the Hampton Road for a full mile, French soldiers on the left side and Americans on the right. The French uniforms were crisp and colorful, while our boys seemed a bit drab and ragged in contrast, but everyone was in the highest of spirits, convinced that their sacrifices and dangerous work had struck a death blow to the war.
Seeing all of the men together at once filled my heart with pride. At the beginning of the war black men had not been allowed to enlist, but they had continued in their efforts to do so until General Washington, the Congress, and the states changed their laws. At Valley Forge one fellow out of ten had been a black man, Curzon among them. Our proportion was much higher now–one in four, as far as I could see–with a scattering of fellows from various Indian nations. Our mother country had sons of all sorts who joined together to defend her honor.
Our company proudly took its place with the rest of the Rhode Island regiment. In fact, our fellows were some of the earliest arrivals. They’d left camp right after breakfast to make sure that they had enough time to get there, given Curzon’s slow pace. His knee and arm would heal, of that I was confident, but he wouldn’t fire a musket or chase an enemy patrol for a good while.
In the days leading up to the official surrender, my sentiments had been as changeable as the wind; one moment I’d felt content around him, and the next, confuddled. I’d sat next to him when the chores of the day were done. It was the most natural thing in the world for us, sitting thus, to lean our shoulders against each other, sharing warmth and strength. But neither of us spoke of anything more than the weather, the pain of his wounds, and how hard it was to chew the tough meat. The strong words we had shared after the redoubt attack seemed too dangerous or awkward to discuss. I did not regret telling him the sentiments of my heart, of that I was almost certain. But we’d landed ourselves in an unknown country, and neither of us knew how to navigate in it.
Ruth and I took up our observation positions with the other women of the army, in the midst of countless spectators who had crowded in, eager to watch the hu
miliation of the enemy, who had despoiled the countryside for months. We worked our way with Cristena and Sibby until we stood with Annie, the older woman we’d met the day our cannons began firing. She served several of the officers who worked with General Washington and thus was better informed than most.
Annie surveyed the carriages of newcomers who had dressed in finery as if this were a fancy ball instead an army encampment. “Prognosticators and campfire politicians, they are,” she said scornfully. “All cozying up to the generals in hopes of favor and profit. Them folks”–she pointed at the group of Oneida men who had been invited to observe the siege by General Washington–“they’re the only ones who have a right to be here. They’ve been fighting on our side from the beginning.”
Cristena passed out gingercakes that had been prepared by the Baker-General and apples that had newly arrived. We were seated on the ground by then, as were many of the men still waiting on the road. The British had not yet appeared. Annie speculated that Cornwallis was having his wig powdered for the occasion. The lasses around me nattered about the baby just born to a woman who worked for the Maryland regiment, and the rumored romance between an officer and a married dame in Williamsburg.
I was not concerned with star-crossed lovers whom I’d never met. I kept watch on Curzon, laughing with his friends on the road, and Ruth, who sat uncommon still and quiet by my side. Knowing that they both were safe and well eased my mind more than I thought possible.
I tipped my face back and enjoyed the contrary sensations of the sun’s heat and the cool autumn breeze. The colors of the leaves were as varied and bright as the uniform coats of the soldiers. This was harvesting weather, the time to pick corn and thresh wheat, to store potatoes and squash in a deep-dug root cellar. We’d spent so many years waging our own wars for freedom, I’d rarely thought about the simple luxuries of an ordinary life lived without fear. Would the end of the country’s war open the door for a life such as that?
* * *
Finally the drums rattled and the most anticipated event of our war for independence began.
“About bloody time,” huffed Annie as we all stood and shook out our skirts. “This delay is just another way of insulting us, mark my words.”
As the line of British wound its way toward us, a muttering grumble rose through the crowd like a low roll of thunder. In the gravest insult of all Lord Cornwallis did not lead his troops to their honorable surrender. In fact, Cornwallis was nowhere to be found. He had sent his number two fellow so as not to expose himself to the shame of defeat.
Annie spat on the ground. “General Washington ought ride into Yorktown hisself and drag that coward Cornwallis out by the ear!”
The fellow who substituted for Cornwallis offered his sword to General Washington, a ceremonial gesture that signified to all that the British had been fully humbled and beaten. Washington shook his head and indicated that the sword of surrender ought be given to the number two man on our side, Major General Lincoln. This caused a tremendous roar of approval, with many shouts and hoots from the allied troops and spectators.
After rows of officers marched by, there came near eight thousand defeated soldiers. The British were first, clad mostly in red, along with a regiment of Scotsmen dressed in their strange plaid skirts called kilts, and then the Hessians, who mostly dressed in blue. They did not march in an orderly fashion, and their regimental musicians played so poorly, we all thought they were muddy in drink. The final insult was the direction of their gaze: As they passed between the rows of their conquerors, the British all turned their eyes to the French side of the road, showing our fellows the backs of their heads.
“Arrogant clodpates,” Annie declared.
“Where’s Aberdeen?” Ruth asked me.
“He’s not a British soldier, poppet,” I said. She’d been asking about him regular as a clock since the siege ended.
“But he was in Yorktown.” She pointed at the column of soldiers caterpillaring down the road. “They’re from Yorktown.”
“Mebbe he has already sailed away,” I said, trying hard to find a way to offer comfort to her. “He wanted to go to Scotland, remember?”
She frowned but did not answer.
At the end of the march the British threw down their muskets, swords, and cartridge boxes onto a large circle of ground. They then had to walk back between the French and American troops. As they did, they continued to insult our men by not looking at them. Some Continental soldiers were angered by the disrespect and commenced to shouting and waving their fists.
“Looks to me like another battle is about to break out,” said Sibby.
But our officers barked commands and our soldiers regained their dignity.
As the prisoners (for that was their new title, “prisoners of war”) headed back to Yorktown, where they would be kept under guard, we gathered up our baskets and canteens.
“Look there,” Sibby said, pointing at the road.
At the tail of the British forces, walking without weapons or uniforms, came their women and children, near one hundred by my count. Many of our soldiers had left the road as soon as the last of the defeated enemy’s forces had passed by, so the women and children attached to the British forces were accorded little notice.
Our band of lasses stood with respectful attention. We understood their sacrifice.
CHAPTER XLIV
Saturday, October 20–Saturday, November 3, 1781
TELL THEM THAT IF I AM BLACK, I AM FREE BORN AMERICAN AND A REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIER AND THEREFORE OUGHT NOT TO BE THROWN ENTIRELY OUT OF THE SCALE OF NOTICE.
–LETTER OF JOHN CHAVIS, FIFTH VIRGINIA REGIMENT, WHO FOUNDED AN INTEGRATED SCHOOL IN NORTH CAROLINA THAT WAS FORCED TO CLOSE AFTER NAT TURNER’S REBELLION IN 1831
ALONG WITH EIGHT THOUSAND PRISONERS and thousands of muskets, empty cartridge boxes, and heavily used cannons, the victory provided us with countless bolts of heavy woolen cloth. This was a treasure indeed, for winter was fast approaching and many of our lads lacked enough clothes to keep warm. A military sewing circle was established around the campfires in the women’s section of the camp, and near half the lasses were detailed to sit there and sew all the day long. Ruth was among them, working silently next to Sibby, who’d promised to keep an eye on her.
I struggled on my own but somehow managed the cooking, washing, mending, and nursing of the lads in our company. The frantic pace of the work was a welcome distraction from the unanswered questions about our future.
The surrender of Cornwallis was a brilliant victory for the Patriots, but we were still at war. Scouts kept an eye on the river in case the British fleet arrived to surprise us. All our cannons had to be pulled back out of the trenches, repaired, and readied for the next battle. Near half of the camp–the regiments from Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia–marched south to meet up with the forces of General Greene and drive the British out of the Carolinas and Georgia. The rest of us would soon be headed north, to spend the winter near New York, the city that overflowed with British soldiers and Loyalist refugees. General Washington wanted to keep a close eye on his enemies while he waited for the return of the battle season.
Curzon was detailed to help the armorers. He couldn’t walk far and his injured arm was still sling-bound, but with his good arm and some clever positioning of the required tools, he could clean muskets and sharpen bayonets. He told me it was best for him to take his meals and to sleep with the other forge workers, in order to spare his bad knee all the painful walking to and from our company’s encampment.
I was not sure that I believed him. I offered to bring him his supper each night, or to come later, to sit and chat by the fire. He told me it would be better if I didn’t, then he limped off with the help of Tall Will.
“Lad’s got a lot on his mind,” Henry said to me. “Give him a few days and he’ll be back to his sunny ways.”
I didn’t know what to think.
* * *
When our troops entered what was left of York
town, they found horror there. Our cannonballs and explosive shells had reduced the buildings to rubble. Much worse was the sight of the arms and legs and other parts of bodies that had been torn asunder and left scattered. They had belonged to the black people, the white people, men, women, soldiers, laborers, and townsfolk. The men of our army buried them all. When that mournful job was done, they buried the rotting corpses of the horses, too.
Strangers started arriving in camp. Wellborn politicians with warm overcoats and hands that had never seen work lingered, asking questions and trying to cozy up to the generals. Wealthy plantation owners arrived with their overseers, looking for slaves who had liberated themselves. Sergeant Armstrong told everyone in our company that we should travel only in groups of twos and threes. ’Twas unlikely, he claimed, that anyone would be foolish enough to try to enslave a Continental soldier, but that didn’t mean we should make the task easy for them. His orders were meant for me as well, which made any visit to check on Curzon near impossible.
That night Sibby motioned for me to join her by the fire after Ruth lay down in our brush hut to sleep. I nodded to the other lasses gathered there, and they smiled pleasant. We all wore our blankets around our shoulders for warmth and crowded the fire for heat. A few of the women squinted as they tried to sew in the dim light, their fingers stiff with the cold.
I took my place on the log next to Sibby.
“We both need sleep, so I’ll come right to it,” she said bluntly.
“Has Ruth done something wrong?” I asked.
She broke into hearty laughter that echoed in the dark. “Gracious, no! That child is a godsend! Never complains, and works as hard as any of us. That’s why I started thinking upon my grand notion.”
The other lasses watched us close. I suspected they already knew the notion she was talking about.
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