Victory at Yorktown: A Novel

by Newt Gingrich

  The shadows ahead darkened. It was land, and he saw the single lantern light the pilot was making for.

  He heard more whispered commands to ease sheet, a suggestion for the “gentleman to please sit down,” rudder over to run before the wind for a moment, then a luffing of sails as they turned straight into the eye of the wind. The center keel was winched up, and a line cast to the wharf and the boat hauled up snug against the wharf.

  They made it all look so simple. Of course, his Massachusetts fishermen would have found some fault or other, that these were not real sailors, plying a river crossing while they had known hurricane gales and forty-foot seas—the usual bravado of any professional men observing the work of another in their craft—but he was impressed with how effortless it all seemed in contrast to the nightmare of the icy crossing at Trenton.

  Though he was not prone to such thoughts, was this not a good portent, he wondered? Or because it all seemed to be going so effortlessly, would he soon be in for a rude shock?

  He ignored the offer of a hand of assistance as he leaped to the dock, even before the boat was snugged in tight for offloading. His guards, staff, and Billy Lee followed. In less than a minute the boatmen had cast off for the return journey to the far shore.

  “General Washington, sir?”

  He looked about in the semidarkness illuminated by the single lantern and the waning moon.

  The man inquiring as to his presence approached and saluted.

  “Colonel Wellesley, sir,” he announced as Washington returned the salute.

  “All goes well?” Washington asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington motioned for him to follow as he stepped off the wharf. The men on this side had done their work well, throwing up a final defensive position fifty yards out from the wharf, and a forward position a hundred yards beyond the inner line and thus out of effective musket-fire range.

  Once past the outer line, walking along the road that led southward, Washington stopped, looked around, motioned for his guards and staff to remain in place, and walked up a narrow country lane for several dozen paces until he was sure the two of them were truly alone.

  “Your report?”

  “Sir, all is going according to your orders. The decoy companies are marching along the river road. I already have my people out ahead of our dragoons. We have fairly reliable lists of any Loyalists along our line of march, and they will either be placed under guard by local militia, or, if thought to be of significant risk, they will be detained until three days after our passing.”

  Washington nodded with approval. The hidden game of war, of subterfuge, of spy and counterspy, of gathering of intelligence and of spreading false rumors was one he would not admit to in public. Yet it was this part of it all that fascinated him. A well-placed rumor that diverted a brigade of British troops, that sent a ship bearing a false dispatch clear back to England, or that spread any kind of confusion was an effort well made. Even when the army was literally bankrupt, he had somehow managed to keep a small amount of hard cash always on hand to pay or bribe those who were motivated by less than patriotic motives.

  “And your spreading of ‘tall tales’?” Washington asked, and he smiled, a rare luxury these last few days, in which, like an actor on the stage, he had plotted out the most complex maneuver of this war, based upon but one letter from thousands of miles away. Throughout he had to act calm, confident, but not too eager and excited. It was actually a pleasure for him, this moment to be alone with a soldier he trusted, and talk of the ancient game of spying and not have anything to conceal.

  Wellsley’s smile was visible in the moonlight.

  “There is, how can I say this delicately, sir? A woman of, shall I say, dubious virtue who the British think works for them.”

  “And she is in your pay for information.”

  “Even now, someone, a militia officer, is boasting about getting ready to lead an attack across to Staten Island. The boats, as you suggested as well, sir, are being moved into the bay on the Jersey side and will be visible from time to time. I have some other things afoot as well.”

  “Sir?”

  Washington looked back down the lane. It was Alexander Hamilton. The young officer, all so eager for battle, approached with a jaunty step, stopped, and saluted.

  “I have the honor to report that the first entire brigade is now across, sir, and moving out. Can we request the honor of your company for a while?”

  He considered the proposal and then agreed. He would not actually leave this area for another day, until the last of his men and supplies were across, and fully assured that Rochambeau was moving and had convinced Barre to do so as well. “I’ll ride along to start your men off,” Washington announced. It was obvious Hamilton was delighted with the response.

  He turned back to Wellesley.

  “I trust you, Colonel, with much, but I also caution you to take no extreme risks with yourself. One can only tempt fate or the devil so far.”

  If Billy Lee had heard that comment there would have been a barely suppressed cough and clearing of a throat. His servant had said the same to Washington a hundred times or more during the heat of battle when his general would go literally into the volley line to encourage the men.

  Washington turned and disappeared into the shadows, Wellsley coming to attention and saluting his receding form.

  Perhaps it was best not to discuss too much what some of his plans were, Wellsley thought to himself. The general had enough worries to deal with this night.

  NEAR YONKERS, NEW YORK

  AUGUST 19–20, 1781

  3:00 A.M.

  Allen carefully braced the telescope on its mount, barely touching the focus. It was a “night scope” versus the standard field telescope, with a wider front lens to gather in more light. Frankly, he didn’t see much difference using it, but then again …

  Yes, a sail, a momentary glimpse, as a boat five miles away up the Hudson appeared to come about, the sail broadside against the moonlight. Only a moment, but it was enough. What appeared to be horses on board the boat as it slipped up against the wharf, on the west bank of the river, illuminated by its single lantern.

  “Note, boat carrying an estimated half dozen horses.”

  After the obvious terror that Sergeant O’Toole had shown the previous year when they had ventured through the lines in the vain attempt to try and intervene for Major Andre, he had the man reassigned to his regiment, even sent him back with a warm letter of recommendation to keep him in good graces. His assistant now was a street urchin, picked up off the wharves of the city, a native of the city since the start of the war, who knew its alleyways and darker secrets. Jamie O’Neal, at sixteen, actually had some education behind him until both his parents died in the smallpox epidemic, which had left him badly scarred as well. Of course, his kindly schoolmaster, without tuition payment in hand, had cast him out onto the street before his parents were cold in the ground. The lad had damn near starved to death until he learned more of the school of harder knocks and had fallen in with Allen when he had tried to rob him last year after a night in the “stews” picking up gossip. Allen had wandered out acting as if he were drunk, and then had thrashed Jamie half to death, when the lad fumbled a bludgeoning attack from behind. He took pity when a guard detail, hearing the commotion, rushed to the rescue of an officer and was ready to haul the boy off to prison. Assaulting an officer, in an occupied city during wartime, would be construed as a Rebel plot of assassination and the boy would be doing the “midair jig” from a gallows within a day. For his skin and bones and ragged appearance, Allen felt pity. Twice before there had been attempts to kill him in alleyways at night, by hardened men, either real Rebels or those hired by someone to eliminate a man suspected of running spies. He had seen Jamie was only a pathetic lad trying to survive.

  He had dragged the boy into a nearby tavern, ordered a meal for him, kept a wary eye, and as he ate his fill the youth collapsed into tears. As the boy stuffe
d himself like a voracious wolf, Allen learned his family had come over from the north of Ireland ten years before, purchased a farm and orchard just north of Springfield, across the river in Jersey where the battle had been fought the year before, and prospered there until the war. Some ill-advised public statements by his father—“to hell with all Rebels, God save the king”—and in short order they were refugees in New York. With their deaths in the great smallpox epidemic, and no other kin, and no home to go back to since it had been sold in auction at a fraction of the fair price, the boy had barely stayed alive. Too scraggly and weak-looking, even for a recruiting sergeant, and obviously not skilled in his latest craft of strike from behind and rob, he was near death.

  He had an instinct about the lad. As they talked, he learned the boy knew the declensions of Latin, even read a little Greek. He had a sharp eye for details and a keen mind, once fed to near bursting, and spoke of his parents’ desire that he become educated. The story resonated with Allen since it was so much like his own.

  The only reason his own father’s business survived in Trenton was that all knew that Allen’s younger brother was considered a hero from the battle there five years ago. Otherwise he most likely would have been driven out because of Allen’s decision to serve the king; but for a slight twist of fate, this boy’s story could have been his own.

  He tossed a shilling on the table, gave his address, told the boy if he wanted work to come to his place at dusk tomorrow. If not, then take up some profession other than trying to rob officers in alleyways, for it was a certain quick trip to the gallows.

  Allen sat back from the telescope to rub his eyes. A slight mist was beginning to rise off the river, making observation difficult. In the silence of night by the river, sound carried, and he could hear the muffled stroke of oars, hoarse whispers, one of the Rebel picket boats pushing a lot farther down river than they usually did, keeping watch against any foray by the Royal navy.

  The mere thought of that filled him with frustration. It would have been easy enough to run a couple of light brigs up with the tide, perhaps even a frigate before nightfall. With rumors of something afoot, he had even suggested it in his report the previous morning. Of course, that would now be lost in the piles of paper on Clinton’s desk, and the army would never ask the navy for such a thing, anyway. They had to stand ready to sally if de Grasse did show up off the passage out to Sandy Hook, which was now the latest concern. The Royal navy feared that the French might appear here and join with Barre. They would then far outnumber the ships of the line keeping the sea lanes open back to Halifax and England from here. Chasing after a few Rebels on boats on the Hudson was beneath their dignity and not their task.

  He sometimes wondered just exactly who was on whose’s side when it came to the rivalry between the army and navy, as to which branch was to perform what task and the hell with bloody pride.

  Without bothering to ask, Jamie relieved Allen at the telescope, adjusting it slightly, carefully, slowly sweeping it along the river, then paused.

  “Another one, sir,” he whispered.

  Allen resumed his position, looked but couldn’t see anything.

  “You sure?”

  “Certain, just a glimpse, heading to the west shore.”

  The mist continued to rise, turning all northward into an opaque haze.

  He set back down, opened his haversack, pulled out a thick slice of ham, cut it in half and tossed one half to Jamie, who grunted a thanks. Even after all these months the boy devoured food like a wolf believing he was having his last meal.

  “So what do you think?” Allen asked.

  “Oh they’re moving, sir. How many boats have we counted crossing?” he held up his sketch pad of notes to the moonlight. “We observed sixteen, chances are we missed twice as many until the moon came up.”

  Allen nodded in agreement.

  “Pack up the telescope and let’s head back.”

  The boy silently set to work, after finishing the ham and licking the grease off his fingers. Minutes later they were walking the half mile back to the village where they had left their horses. Yonkers was the outer line dividing Rebel territory from that held by the army in the city. A forward skirmish line had been pushed up after dark in order to give him a vantage point for a look up toward Dobbs Ferry, with orders to pull back before dawn. First light would begin to rise in another hour or so.

  Gaining the village, and making sure the telescope case was concealed under a heavy horse blanket so as not to arouse notice, the two mounted, thanked the innkeeper for tending to them with a silver shilling, and headed down to the bridge across the Harlem river and back to Manhattan Island.

  To the east the first indigo glow of dawn was showing, the morning star of Venus shimmering bright above the horizon.

  “Ever look at Venus through a telescope, sir?” Jamie asked.

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “We had one out on the farm. My father helped me to make it, ground the mirror for weeks on end. ’Tis a beautiful sight,” the boy sighed wistfully.

  “Your farm, you still miss it?”

  “Aye. We called where we lived the ‘Mill Burn.’”

  “For a burning mill?”

  The boy laughed.

  “Lot of Scots were in the region. A burn is another name for a creek and there were several mills near our farm, just to the east along the headwaters of the Raritan. Yes, I miss it.”

  “Care to see it again?”

  There was hesitation for a moment, the implication clear. The boy finally just nodded.

  Allen smiled. It would be good to get out of this damn city, and be off on an adventure again.

  Eight

  THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON NEAR DOBBS FERRY

  AUGUST 23, 1781

  It had been a very difficult, exhausting four days but the last of Rochambeau’s men were finally across the river. For General Washington it had been, perhaps, the most intense, tension-laden four days of his life. Though Rochambeau was all but explosive with enthusiasm over this audacious plan, they were all still tied hostage to whether the French fleet at Newport would, indeed, sally forth, skirt around the British in New York, slip away into the vastness of the Atlantic, and then rendezvous with de Grasse. Barre remained sitting on the middle of the fence and not committing. Feeling he could wait no longer, Rochambeau had agreed with Washington that their armies would march regardless, praying their departure would ultimately shame Barre into getting off the damn fence and doing his job, which was to sail and seek action.

  Then finally, only an hour ago, thank God, word had come. Barre had agreed to take aboard his fleet the heavy siege train of French supplied eighteen- and twenty-four-pounder guns and the score of heavy mortars absolutely essential for a proper siege operation against a heavily fortified position, which Cornwallis would surely have built by now, each of which weighed several tons and would have taken months to haul overland to Virginia. He was also taking along fifteen hundred barrels of salted beef, enough to feed the entire army for several weeks, an additional regiment of French infantry, siege engineers, and artillerymen to handle the heavy weapons that could be as dangerous to the user as the target if not handled correctly. In short, he had signed on to the plan, and Washington felt at last that he could gallop forward to the head of his army, already halfway across New Jersey.

  The campaign had now truly begun.

  “I will see you in Philadelphia in six days, sir!” Washington announced, leaning forward to grasp Rochambeau’s hand, the French general grinning.

  “Do promise that my men may enter the city marching with yours, mon Général. It is good for morale, yes, and the ladies will certainly cheer and offer their personal thanks to their noble allies from France.”

  Despite the ribald intent of the general’s comment, Washington, with his usual taciturn sense, decided to let it pass without comment. As he looked at the famed French regiments, arrayed in marching order, and contrasted them with his own ragge
d lot, there was nothing that could be said. There was many a “lady” of Philadelphia whose gaze would rest upon the neatly attired soldiers of France and head straight to them, and even the heads of the more virtuous would most certainly be turned.

  Some of the most famed and ancient regiments of the French army, with proud lineages dating back over a century to the Thirty Years War, had crossed the river during the previous night, along with their mountains of baggage, what the Romans called “impedimenta” with just reason, for it would surely slow their march. Nevertheless, these regiments were, indeed, fighters—many of the men in the ranks were veterans of the brutal Seven Years War, either against his own side, or against the British and Prussians on the continent—but they also expected a proper repast at dinner, tents for all, even soap and whitening to cover over the stains of their lily white uniforms for morning inspection or for a formal parade in front of the ladies of Philadelphia.

  Compared to his “scarecrow” army, the contrast would be startling and most noticeable.

  Returning Rochambeau’s melodramatic salute and bow, while mounted, Washington turned his horse and set off at a canter that was soon up to a gallop. The head of his army, weaving along back roads on the far side of the Watchung Hills, thus blocking any observation from New York City, was approaching the passes out of those hills and would be in Princeton by day’s end. It was a ride of nearly sixty miles, and he took delight at the prospect. It had been a long time, indeed, since his army had been on the march. As he headed out to a gamble and an uncertain fate, inwardly he rejoiced in the long day’s ride ahead, the type of ride he so often indulged in when young.

  He spared a quick glance over his shoulder and, of course, Billy Lee was behind him, well mounted, with the ever-hovering guard detail trailing close behind. A wave of exuberance swept through him for a moment after these long years of stalemate. Now in this heady moment they were again on the march, a march of nearly five hundred miles on a mad insane gamble with all the odds against them.