Victory at Yorktown: A Novel

by Newt Gingrich

  Peter, still stiff as if struggling for control, looked back at his escort, two old troopers nearly twice his age, both of them grinning over this conversation that they were obviously “eavesdropping” on.

  “I don’t want to speak of it with you,” Peter finally said.

  “I’ve tried to send at least a dozen letters through the lines, Peter,” Allen replied, “but never a word of reply. I worry for her. After our army evacuated Philadelphia I feared she might face reprisals as a Loyalist, especially because her father fled to New York, claiming he was going there to oversee the family business interests and leaving his daughter to oversee their home, legally signing it over to her name. Their friend Doctor Rush was supposed to keep an eye on her and vouch for her if need be.

  “Peter, regardless of your personal feelings, as a gentleman may I ask a favor?”

  Peter nodded, not replying, making no offer.

  He took a deep breath.

  “She was close friends with Peggy Shippen. I fear that association compounded by the fact that her father has fled to New York, now puts her in harm’s way.”

  “That traitorous bitch Shippen!” Peter snapped. “My God, if Elizabeth is friends with her, she better lay low until Judgment Day. If Shippen wasn’t a woman, she’d be dancing at the end of a rope tomorrow morning as well.”

  Allen instantly regretted telling Peter that bit of news. At this moment Peggy was the most infamous woman in North America—the wife of the arch traitor Benedict Arnold, and beyond that rumored to have been the mistress of his friend Major John Andre when they had occupied Philadelphia back in ’77. Some even saw her as the link of communication between the two.

  “Could you at least make sure for me that Elizabeth is all right and inform her that I still think of her daily and,” he hesitated, “that I still love her?”

  “I’m making no promises on that score,” Peter replied sharply. “As to your personal concerns, Miss Elizabeth is perfectly safe. Neither of us makes war on women and children.”

  “Not what I’ve heard from along the frontier and down South,” Allen retorted.

  The tension triggered by mention of Elizabeth stilled their conversation and the attempts by both, at some level, to try to show some level of friendship for a childhood friend evaporated. It was, of course, compounded by the fact that both faced each other, not just at this moment, but across the years in the game of point and counterpoint of spying in New Jersey and New York.

  The road ahead dipped down into a broad open expanse, a field of several dozen acres, covered with tents, and a two-story stone farmhouse was set back a hundred yards from the road.

  Alongside of it, carpenters were busy erecting a simple gallows—not the trapdoor kind, recently developed and claimed to be more humane since the victim’s neck was usually snapped, bringing instant death, but the old-fashioned kind of just vertical uprights, a crosstree, the rope already dangling from it. Next to it, shovels rose and fell rhythmically from out of the ground, the grave digging detail at work.

  Allen all but came to a stop, staring at it.

  “Andre is in there,” Peter said, nodding to the farmhouse. “It takes place the hour after dawn tomorrow.”

  Allen, throat again tightening, could not speak for a moment.

  “My orders are to proceed to General Washington’s headquarters and present a missive from General Clinton.”

  “And I have told you, his Excellency the general will not receive you.”

  “Major Wellsley, we are both bound by our orders, please escort me to General Washington’s headquarters. If rejected, I can at least tell my general I had made the personal appeal and that your general acted directly toward me as you claim he now will.”

  Peter sighed, finally nodded, and without comment spurred his mount, Allen taking a moment to catch up. For an instant there was a childhood memory of having “borrowed” two horses from the barn of the Snyders, who lived beyond the edge of their village, and racing them bareback across the pasture. He recalled Peter falling off and cracking a rib, and how the Snyders, good people that they were, had actually rigged up their carriage to take Peter home.

  They rode for a couple of miles, passing more and more troops camped in fields or out drilling, and woodcutting parties working on the stockpiles for approaching winter. It always amazed him how an army of just several thousand could devour acres of woods in but a few days. Allen took note of their appearance, and sensed their morale was high. Most were somewhat raggedy, but they were not the ill-uniformed scarecrows he had faced at Germantown and Monmouth.

  The French supply ships, able to run the blockade, had brought in uniforms, new muskets, tentage, artillery, and ammunition for thousands. It showed. There was even a company of French troops, in their distinctive and somewhat absurd white uniforms, impossible to keep clean in the field, out drilling with absolute precision. He could not help but see all this, but of course, by the rules of war, while under a flag of truce he was forever forbidden on his word of honor to report on anything observed. Peter could have required him to wear a blindfold, but had not done so, at least a small concession to a memory of honorable behavior dating back to childhood.

  At last, General Washington’s headquarters loomed into view, made obvious by the commander-in-chief flag flying in front and by the guard details, which had, without doubt, been doubled and doubled again since the Arnold incident started, and with it the revelation that part of the plan was to have Washington himself captured or killed.

  Peter reined in, and an orderly briskly stepped forward to take his mount’s bridle, then offered the same service to Allen. It had been a long day of riding up from Manhattan, and he wished he could just walk around and stretch for a few minutes, but knew that all eyes, most of them hostile, were upon him. Peter’s two escorts and Sergeant O’Toole, still carrying the flag of truce and looking about, obviously still frightened, came up and dismounted as well.

  Peter approached the door to Washington’s residence, a strongly built home, typical of this region of the Hudson Valley, influenced by Dutch designs, constructed of sturdy fieldstone with a high sloping roof. The two guards directly at the door came to attention. The door was opened and a young officer stood there, barring the way. Allen had some recollection of him. It was the Frenchman, Lafayette. Peter spoke to him for a moment. Lafayette looked past Peter to Allen and to his surprise actually bowed slightly and offered a salute; Allen instantly stiffened and returned the gesture. The door closed behind them, and Allen suddenly felt awkward, indeed. Still at attention from returning Lafayette’s salute, he just stood there for a moment, knowing nearly all eyes were upon him. O’Toole came up to his side and that at least gave him a diversion to turn and speak to him.

  “Are you all right, sergeant?”

  “Well, sir, we are now in the belly of the beast, are we not?” O’Toole whispered, and he could not help but smile at this comment.

  “They’ll honor the flag,” Allen said.

  “Those first ones weren’t about to.”

  “This is General Washington’s headquarters, these are men of honor,” he said, deliberately loud enough so that those nearby could hear, “not those militia scum who nearly murdered us back on the road.”

  He said it loud enough so that Lafayette and others would hear of the incident.

  “If I’m granted an audience, you just remain here, go over to those trees over there so you are in the shade, and stand at ease. Don’t talk unless spoken to. Remember we are under a flag of truce so be careful of what you say. They might try and get information from you.”

  “Soul of caution it is, sir,” O’Toole replied.

  “Good man,” Allen replied, patting him on the shoulder to reassure him, even though the sergeant was an enlisted man nearly twice his age.

  “Major van Dorn?”

  He turned. It was Lafayette. Allen stiffened again to attention and saluted, the two following proper European custom.

  “I hope
your journey here was without incident?”

  “No problem at all once I finally met Major Wellsley. Major Wellsley is a childhood friend.”

  “So I have heard. It was your brother who helped to successfully guide the attack at Trenton.”

  Allen could only nod.

  “On that indulgence of memory, his Excellency the general has agreed to meet with you, and to receive your letter. Your friend pleaded your case most persuasively.”

  “I thank you, sir.”

  Given Peter’s cool reception, this information surprised him. He followed Lafayette into the house, the main corridor filled with half a dozen officers who turned and looked at him. Lafayette went through the ritual of formal presentations, nods exchanged to each—Generals Greene, Stirling, the now legendary von Steuben, and the rotund artillery commander Knox. Except for the polite words of introduction, no comments were exchanged. He scanned each of them quickly, trying to imprint the memory of them into his mind if ever a day should come when they met on the field of battle.

  Lafayette tapped politely on a dark green door facing the main corridor, then slowly opened it. Within, General George Washington was looking up from behind a desk, and Peter Wellsley was standing stiffly at attention by his side.

  Lafayette led the way in, then closed the door behind Allen.

  “Your Excellency, I have the honor of presenting to you Major Allen van Dorn, of the staff of General Clinton. Major van Dorn, may I present to you General George Washington.”

  Allen stiffened to rigid attention, doffing his hat and bowing low. Washington rose from his chair, hatless and offering a salute.

  Washington then sat down, but no chair was offered to Allen.

  Allen studied the man closely. They had met once before, the day after Trenton when the general had offered him parole and exchange because of his brother’s service. The impression on him then was memorable, a towering man of muscular build, still young-looking in his early forties. The only imperfection in his features was the deep scarring of smallpox, but then again, that was true of a fair percentage of people in this world.

  General Washington had aged greatly since then. With wig off, his hair had gone nearly entirely to gray, his eyes were deep sunk, features slightly gaunt, a sense of weariness about him as if he had endured a sleepless night, yet nevertheless gaze fixed unflinchingly.

  “Young Major Wellsley tells me that we have met before,” the general finally said, breaking the silence.

  “Yes, sir. The day after the first battle at Trenton. You offered me parole and exchange because of…”

  His voice trailed off for a moment and the general finished the sentence “… because your brother died a noble Patriot in service to his country.”

  Allen wondered if there was the slightest hint of rebuke in Washington’s tone, questioning how he could still serve the Crown after the sacrifice of his own brother to the Rebel cause.

  “I had already informed your courier yesterday that I would refuse any appeal from your General Clinton to spare the life of Major Andre unless it was to exchange him for,” he hesitated as if there was a bad taste in just saying the name, “Benedict Arnold.”

  Allen watched his features closely. Yes, the general loathed Arnold now, but only weeks before, Arnold was rumored to be among this man’s closest friends and confidantes, and that if Washington should ever fall in battle it was his wish that either General Greene or Arnold assume full command of the forces in the field.

  “As the party making the request, sir, may I have your permission to give to you a letter from my commanding officer?”

  Washington nodded, saying nothing.

  Still rigid at attention, Allen took the final three steps to Washington’s desk, reached into his uniform breast pocket, and drew out the heavy envelope, sealed with wax and bound with waxed cord. Washington, using what looked like a paring knife, cut the cords, broke the seal, and opened the letter.

  His eyes darted down the page, taking not more than half a minute. With a sigh he put the letter down, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

  “As I already had sent to your general, the only consideration I will offer will be the exchange of Arnold for your Major Andre. That was refused, which was why I initially declined to even meet with you, Major van Dorn. If anything, this meeting now is a courtesy more to you than to your commander who…”

  He hesitated but then continued.

  “… refuses to hand over an outright traitor, for a man, who by all accounts, even from those who sat at his trial, is an honorable officer, a gallant man of noble spirit.”

  “Sir, he is,” Allen blurted out. “He has been my closest friend in the army for three years, and it gladdens me to hear that even those who sit in judgment of him see that nobility of character.”

  He regretted this breech of protocol even as he spoke, but his emotions had taken hold.

  He caught a glimpse of his old friend Peter looking at him, standing slightly behind Washington, and subtly shaking his head.

  “Yet, nevertheless, no matter how honorable his character, he was caught behind our lines, in civilian garb, and attempted to bribe his way past our pickets when stopped.”

  Allen knew it was not his place to present the argument that Andre had, indeed, gone to meet Arnold, right in the middle of his own encampment, by necessity forced to disguise himself in civilian clothing. It was an action at which he had expressed doubt, but was ordered to do so by Clinton in order to consummate Arnold’s betrayal. He had, indeed, tried to bluff his way past the pickets manned by troops most likely similar to the ones who had surprised Allen on the ride in. Andre had at first mistaken them for a Loyalist unit, then, realizing his mistake, had fallen back on the subterfuge that he was just a civilian visiting a friend behind the lines, and offered a bribe to be allowed to pass. One of the guards, searching him, had found the secret plans to coordinate the betrayal and offensive strike by Clinton to take West Point and to capture General Washington as well.

  Now his noble friend stood condemned.

  “There is no offer here in this letter for a fair and proper exchange, as I knew there would not be,” Washington finally said, voice weary.

  Allen wanted to express his contempt for Arnold, a man who had left Andre to his fate, who had even left his wife behind when he realized the plot had been unmasked. Now residing in New York, even though he had come over to the Loyalist side, his manner of betrayal made him a social pariah. He was useful to their cause, but never to be accepted into polite society—if a man would betray once, he would, without doubt, betray again. At least those Loyalists who had stayed with the Crown, such as himself, had done so openly, at the start of the conflict rather than switch horses in midstream.

  Allen was, as an officer bearing a message, not graced with the latitude of discussion, debate, or appeal that would perhaps have occurred if Washington had been at a meeting of equal rank with Clinton.

  “I have received the letter you bear, Major van Dorn. You have fulfilled your mission. There is no need to send a reply to your general, since there has not been an indication on his behalf of the slightest change other than an appeal to my sense of humanity.”

  He sighed, looking up at the ceiling and then back to Allen.

  “Do you think I relish this task?” Washington asked coldly. “I want you to know that every officer you saw out in the corridor, even General Lafayette here, was impressed by Major Andre’s nobility and seeing he was simply caught in the machinations of another, have appealed for some form of leniency.”

  Allen knew better than to offer a reply.

  “Regardless of my personal feelings in this case, I am in command of all armies in the field fighting for our independence from your Crown. Personal feelings must not hold sway, must never hold sway. Such personal sentiments must never overrule what must, however regretfully, be my duty.

  “By the rules of war, a spy may be exchanged for an enemy of equal value, and that equal value
is Arnold. If not, then he is to be hanged.”

  Allen could sense Lafayette stiffening slightly, drawing in his breath. Washington shot the young French general an angry glance, and Lafayette went rigid.

  “I will say this, and you may convey it to your General Clinton: Every member of the trial board spoke to me of some form of leniency, or if execution was, indeed, necessary as required by the rules of war, and that same board voted for unanimously, urged that your Major Andre face execution by firing squad rather than hanging.”

  Washington fell silent for a moment, shook his head, and then lowered it.

  “This is not revenge, Major van Dorn, but no such choice was offered to Nathan Hale, or many another man captured behind your lines in this conflict. In some cases our people have been strung up within minutes of being captured.”

  He sighed.

  “This is not revenge. These are the rules of war. I am honor bound to uphold them and it must be so.”

  Allen stood silent, and General Washington finally looked up at him and nodded.

  “Go and tell General Clinton my reply.”

  Allen swallowed hard, and was about to remove his hat again, bow, and withdraw, but then nerve took hold.

  “Then a personal request, sir, an indulgence I beg of you.”

  Washington looked at him with flash of annoyance.

  “Go on then, Major.”

  “Sir. Major Andre was my closest friend in this conflict. It was he who taught me so much about the code of honor of a soldier. May I remain with him in his last hours as a comfort.”

  Washington said nothing.

  “Sir. It would enable me to report back to my general, as well, that though he was hanged, all proper military honors were observed by you and your men, which I am certain will transpire, and perhaps in some way might make this easier for both sides.”

  Washington’s gaze drifted from Allen to Lafayette, and Allen, not daring to look, sensed that Lafayette was nodding an assent. Washington’s gaze fixed on him, and again there was that look of infinite weariness. Allen sensed that the betrayal of Arnold was an emotional shock from which he had yet to recover. He knew this man was educated in the classics and wondered if in his heart he was saying over and over, “et tu, Brute?”