Three hundred yards outside the town, Cornwallis has also built tall earthen forts known as redoubts to keep the Americans at bay. A typical redoubt is capable of holding one hundred men and is armed with cannon, and, because it is fabricated by digging a deep, wide ditch and using the earth to build a wall behind it, an attacker must first descend into the ditch then attempt to scramble up the sloping face of the redoubt. Long pointed stakes poke outward from each bulwark to further impede progress. The ground in front of the ditch is also lined with felled trees with branches still attached—an entanglement designed to further slow any assault.
Cornwallis has had two months to prepare. His defensive position is formidable, though Washington’s force outnumbers that of the British by more than two to one. Washington’s reconnaissance makes clear what he already knows: a ground attack on Yorktown is not possible.
Thus, the general makes plans to build earthworks and trenches of his own. General Rochambeau conceives a design that will run parallel to the British positions, one thousand yards from Yorktown. The trench will be ten feet wide and four feet deep, with room for thirteen artillery batteries.
A line of pine boards a half mile long is laid on the ground to mark where the trenches will be dug. Hundreds of soldiers are sent into the woods to gather vines and sticks, which are then woven into thousands of baskets. These are filled with stones and dirt, and formed into a protective wall to deflect enemy cannonballs. Work parties cut timber for shoring up the trenches, and oxen drag heavy cannon toward the front lines—but the moment has not yet come for these big guns to fire.
For a time, General Washington’s army is no longer a fighting force but, rather, a construction crew. Planning for the digging of “the First Parallel,” as the trench will become known, dominates every aspect of camp life. All the pre-attack preparations are carefully scrutinized and inspected by George Washington. Despite the French Navy’s fast-approaching deadline for departure, the general realizes that haste could be ruinous. There can be no mistakes.
Inside Yorktown, malaria sweeps through the British Army, further reducing Cornwallis’s beleaguered force.1 With no need for horses inside the tight confines of the town, the animals are slaughtered for food and their butchered corpses thrown down the bluff to rot in the river. The citizens of Yorktown cannot flee, and take refuge from the coming bombardment in the bush. Cornwallis himself makes similar preparations, noting the presence of a stone cave along the waterline that will provide protection from American shells.
Not that the British are passively awaiting the rebel onslaught. Cornwallis has assured his troops that the Americans lack the big cannon necessary to defeat them, and he launches coordinated artillery attacks of his own. The British open fire on the American positions to stop the construction that will spell their doom. The shelling continues around the clock, at ten-minute intervals. One shot comes so close to Washington and an army chaplain that dirt from the impact coats the reverend’s hat.
“See here, General!” the terrified chaplain complains, eager to flee to safety.
“Mr. Evans,” Washington replies. “You had better carry that [hat] home and show it to your wife and children.”
* * *
Day five, October 3.
Washington receives the welcome news that Banastre Tarleton’s horsemen have been roundly defeated in a skirmish with French cavalry, suffering the death of one officer and eleven dragoons. Tarleton was thrown from his horse in the course of the action, but managed to mount another and gallop to safety. He will not fight again.
The conflict took place at Gloucester, on the opposite side of the York River from Yorktown. Tarleton and his men fled back to the safety of the British outpost along the waterfront. However, Washington had the forethought to position French and American troops on that shore. As in Yorktown, these forces hemmed the British in on three sides, with the river at their back. There was no place for Tarleton’s cavalry to gallop their horses, and little forage with which to feed them. In time, Tarleton would order the slaughter of a thousand horses rather than let them fall into American hands.
* * *
Day eight, October 6.
Under the cover of rain and darkness, the digging of the First Parallel begins. General Washington makes a great show of symbolically taking a single swing of a pickax to mark the beginning of construction. The offensive line is anchored on the right by the river, wheeling in a slow arc to the Hampton Road. Fifteen hundred men swing pickaxes and entrenching tools, working through the night, throwing the dirt up onto the northern shoulder of the trench to form a protective barrier between themselves and the British cannon. Another twenty-five hundred soldiers fan out to protect the diggers. It is George Washington’s hope that the rain will muffle the sound of the digging, thus preventing a surprise British artillery barrage to thwart the construction.
By sunrise, the trenches are all but complete. The hard work of moving the artillery into place will take three more days, but Washington and Rochambeau now have a secure line within easy striking distance of Yorktown.
And still the American guns are silent.
* * *
Day eleven, October 9, 3:00 p.m.
The trenches are shored up with timber. The seventy-three cannon, mortars, and howitzers are aimed and loaded, among them the devastating sixteen- and twenty-four-pound cannon. Stacks of ammunition, more plentiful than any man can remember ever seeing, are stacked and ready to be launched.
Finally, it is time to open fire.
In yet another symbolic act, George Washington “put the match to the first gun,” as one American private will remember.
The cannonball from Washington’s eighteen-pounder quickly finds its mark, smashing into a house where a British general and three officers are eating an early dinner. The barrage is devastating. Within seconds, French and American cannon up and down the line launch round after round. The attack is withering, an inferno of iron death emanating from almost one hundred guns. The firing continues almost nonstop for days.
There is nowhere for a British soldier to hide. Yorktown itself is being destroyed as cannonballs open enormous holes in homes and businesses. Writing about the trapped citizens of Yorktown, one Hessian soldier will report that “many were seriously and fatally wounded by the broken pieces of bombs that were exploding, partly in the air, partly on the ground, which broke arms and legs, or killed them.”
Thick dust brought forth by the destruction chokes Yorktown. Rather than man the lines, many British soldiers huddle in basements, sometimes evicting residents to do so.
Death comes in many forms.
Even as the demoralized British deal with the effects of malaria, a new smallpox epidemic engulfs Yorktown. Also, food is in short supply. It is now the Americans who enjoy a hot meal and a good night’s sleep when not on duty.
On Cornwallis’s orders, the British attempt to fire back. But the nonstop American and French cannon fire is destroying many of their guns. Thirty-six hundred rounds per day now fall on Yorktown. So fierce is the allied attack that the barrels of their artillery pieces glow orange from overheating.
“On the evening of [October] 9th the enemy opened their batteries and have since continued firing without intermission,” Lord Cornwallis writes to Clinton in New York.
On the night of October 10, the French Army delivers a cruel blow to British hopes. Cannonballs are heated over a flame until red hot, then launched at the few remaining British ships anchored off Yorktown. These vessels represent hope to Cornwallis, the vaunted power of the British Navy on full display—and perhaps an avenue of escape.
The French gunners find their mark. The frigate HMS Guadeloupe escapes, but not so the Charon, which becomes “enwrapped in a torrent of fire,” in the words of one American eyewitness, “spreading with vivid brightness among the combustible rigging and running with amazing rapidity to the tops of several masts, while all around was thunder and lightning from our cannon and mortars.”
General Cornwallis feels hope running out.
“We have lost about seventy men, and many of our works are seriously damaged,” he writes in a desperate plea to General Clinton. “With such works, on disadvantageous ground, against so powerful an attack, we cannot hope to make a long resistance.”
* * *
Day thirteen, October 11.
George Washington moves in for the kill.
No longer content to bombard the British from the First Parallel, he orders General von Steuben forward to dig a second trench. This line, called the Second Parallel, will be just three hundred fifty yards from Yorktown—close enough for the artillery gunners to fire more precisely. Instead of firing cannonballs at an arc to cover the long range, they will be close enough to ricochet them along the ground, smashing artillery pieces and severing arms and legs as they roll.
There is a problem, though. Even as the Baron’s men work with spades and hoes to dig the new trench, their close proximity to enemy lines makes them easy targets for enemy cannon. In particular, a pair of British redoubts that the allies have numbered “nine” and “ten” make the completion of the Second Parallel impossible. British cannoneers, using withering cannon fire, zero in on von Steuben’s construction crews.
Progress on the Second Parallel slows. The tense standoff between American and British forces, many of whom venture out into no-man’s-land to snipe at one another after dark, grows more personal by the day. The anonymous nature of the siege, with its long-distance cannon blasts and passive resistance, is no more.
The French fleet is now just days away from sailing for the West Indies. Admiral de Grasse is eager to be away. General Washington knows that he cannot delay the construction of the Second Parallel for even a day. For this reason, he orders a bold attack on Redoubts 9 and 10. The French will attack 9. The task for capturing Redoubt 10 will fall to the Americans.
Washington has his choice of commanders. And he can think of no better men to lead the assault than Lt. Col. Alexander Hamilton and the Marquis de Lafayette.
* * *
Day sixteen, October 14.
General Washington offers quiet encouragement to Alexander Hamilton’s four-hundred-man force as it prepares to attack Redoubt 10. Artillery units take aim at the British force within, seeking to soften the target. Lafayette had requested a more seasoned French soldier to lead the way, but Washington personally overruled the marquis to choose Hamilton.
It is 8:00 p.m. as three rockets light the evening sky. This is the signal to advance. Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton and his men begin the march across the open ground between the First Parallel trenches and Redoubt 10. Among his force are African American soldiers of the First Rhode Island Regiment. To Hamilton’s left, advancing through the darkness at the same time, is an equally large French force, bound for Redoubt 9. Even after the rockets fade away, the night is clear enough to allow the men to see the planets Venus and Jupiter shining brightly. Sappers armed with axes move forward to hack away at the thick branches surrounding the British fortifications. Hamilton’s men have not loaded their guns, knowing that close-quarter fighting will be more effective with the bayonet.
As Hamilton marches his men through no-man’s-land, the sounds of fighting from Redoubt 9 can already be clearly heard. A Hessian sentry sensed the French approach and opened fire. The French are pressing the attack at an enormous loss of life—ninety-six French officers and enlisted men will die tonight, but Redoubt 9 will be taken.
“Things went very unmercifully that night,” one Frenchman will write. “One screamed here, the other there, that for the grace of God we should kill him off completely. The whole redoubt was so full of dead and wounded that one had to walk on top of them.”
Hamilton orders his old friend Lt. Col. John Laurens to march around to the back side of Redoubt 10 with a force of eighty men. Hamilton will attack directly from the front with the remainder of the force. Lafayette has remained behind to command his division at the right side of the American lines. This particular redoubt is square, and as the sappers sneak into position to remove obstructions from the perimeter, the British open fire with muskets and grapeshot. The advance unit drops thick bundles of sticks into the dry moat, allowing Hamilton’s soldiers to walk over the abyss. These same men then hoist ladders up the side of the redoubt, allowing the American forces to climb up and over—and into the thick of the fighting.
George Washington watches from a distance, aware that the fate of his siege may well depend upon whether these redoubts are taken. He is still close enough to the action that a cannon shot might take him down.
“Sir, you are too much exposed here, had you not better step a little back?” an aide suggests.
“If you are afraid, you have liberty to step back,” Washington replies.
* * *
Meanwhile, Lt. Col. Alexander Hamilton is so eager to prove his bravery that he does not wait for the sappers to finish their work. He orders his men to race up and over the walls with all speed, not wishing to waste a single ounce of momentum.
Climbing over the steep defensive walls, knowing that enemy bayonets await on the other side, is a bold act on the part of Hamilton. But his subsequent descent into the chaos of the redoubt confronts him with a more brutal reality, for this is the first time the twenty-four-year-old lieutenant colonel has the chance to kill with his bare hands.
Hamilton has fired upon men from a distance as an artillery officer, and witnessed death at George Washington’s side in many a battle. But now he feels the adrenaline-fueled hyperawareness that comes from death’s being just a bayonet or musket ball away.
As Washington pensively looks on from a distance, Alexander Hamilton and his men swing musket butts and thrust bayonets, ruthlessly hacking and killing the small band of defenders. Cries for mercy mingle with the moans of the dying. There are fewer than sixty British and Hessians defending Redoubt 10, and while they put up a strong fight, they are no match for the superior American forces swarming over the parapets.
In those nine minutes between the start of the attack and the moment Redoubt 10 falls, Alexander Hamilton engages in a rare battlefield emotion: pity.
It is a characteristic the British and Hessians have not shown the Americans in their moments of victory. But as it becomes clear that this battle is won, Hamilton intends to demonstrate that the Americans fight their wars differently.
“The killed and wounded of the enemy did not exceed eight,” he will specify in his report. “Incapable of imitating examples of barbarity, and forgetting recent provocations, the soldiery spared every man who ceased to resist.”2
But while Hamilton’s men produce a minimal number of casualties, the fury of the British and Hessian fighters is such that Hamilton suffers nine dead from the daring frontal assault.
“Few cases have exhibited stronger proofs of intrepidity, coolness and firmness than were shown upon this occasion,” Washington will write later approvingly in his journal.
* * *
Day nineteen, October 17.
Construction of the Second Parallel trenches changes everything. The American and French gunners can now demolish targets with ease. Inside Yorktown, the British artillerymen can barely return fire, for their stores of ammunition are almost gone. Today is the fourth anniversary of British general John Burgoyne’s surrender at Saratoga, and the Americans sense that another victory is close.
Inside Yorktown, the air reeks of rotting flesh. There is not a building left unscarred. There is no hope of escape and little reason to carry on.
Lord Cornwallis has no choice.
At ten o’clock on this Wednesday morning, a drummer can be seen standing atop the parapet separating the British and American forces. The field in front of him is pocked with deep craters, the results of shelling. There has been no attempt to bury the dead during the long siege, and decomposing corpses stretch across the bloody plain.
The drummer in his dusty red uniform can be seen but not heard, due to the continuous
boom of French and American cannon. He is playing a universally recognized tune for a parley, a cease-fire. The drummer is closely followed by a British officer waving a white flag. Up and down the line, this signal of truce causes the crews of the big guns to halt their fire.
The officer approaches the American lines. He is hand-delivering a note from Lord Cornwallis to George Washington, a man the British once refused to acknowledge by rank, believing him their militarily inferior.
“Sir, I propose a cessation of hostilities for twenty-four hours and that two officers may be appointed by each side to meet at Mr. Moore’s house to settle the terms of surrender for the posts of York and Gloucester,” the appeal reads.
George Washington agrees—but on one issue the general is firm: the surrender will be on his terms and his terms alone.
* * *
Day twenty-one, October 19.
It is 2:00 p.m. Gen. George Washington and Gen. Jean-Baptiste Rochambeau signed the British surrender documents three hours ago, putting pen to paper, appropriately enough, inside a bloodstained redoubt. Cornwallis had requested that his army be allowed to sail home to England but Washington has refused this courtesy, knowing that the British could then replace them with fresh troops. Cornwallis was also denied the dignity of having his troops march out with colors flying, since the British did not extend the same treatment to the Americans after the fall of Charleston.
Instead, the British will be prisoners of war. They will be stripped of their weapons and regimental colors. Their disgrace will be complete. Ever mindful that history is made of small symbolic moments, Washington added a postscript to the surrender agreement in his own handwriting: “Done in the trenches before York, October 19th, 1781.”
Now all that remains is for Article 3 of the Articles of Capitulation to be enacted: “The garrison of York will march out to a place to be appointed in front of the posts, at two o’clock precisely, with shouldered arms, colors cased, and drums beating a British or German march. They are then to ground their arms, and return to their encampments, where they will remain until they are dispatched to the places of their destination.”3
Killing England Page 25
