Victory at Yorktown: A Novel

by Newt Gingrich

“I do not doubt that, and in fact I already know it. I spoke with him about it only yesterday.”

  Again a pause.

  “Elizabeth, was he, or is he, here?” he finally asked.

  Feigning outrage she stood up and pointed to the door.

  “I suggest Peter, that you leave here this instant. I will not be insulted this way.”

  He did stand, but then did not move.

  “I have reliable reports that Allen is somewhere in this city and waiting outside are some militia that have been pursuing him today. I have been trailing him for nearly four days now, clear back to just outside of Morristown. God save him, he is not in uniform, and therefore not afforded the honors of war. You know what that means.”

  “So you would hang your closest friend of childhood if you catch him, is that it?” she asked, and she was furious with herself that her voice did catch with emotion.

  He broke eye contact and looked away from her.

  “I’ve placed a watch on every tavern in this city where he might seek lodgings. Every road out is guarded, and his horse, a rather fine gray stallion that easily outran me several days back, was found in a livery stable so that way out is barred now as well.”

  He fixed her with his gaze.

  “I can think of only one place in this city, today, where he would know he would find a safe hiding place.”

  “And you are saying here?”

  He did not reply.

  She took a deep breath.

  “Then go ahead and look,” she challenged him. “Tear the house apart. You might even find him in my bedroom at this very moment, waiting for me to return to his side.”

  She could see those words struck him hard, his gaze lowered, but, as if to take her up on her offer, he walked out of the parlor, out into the main corridor, and looked up the flight of stairs. She stood silent in the parlor, heart now pounding. He finally looked back at her, smile gone.

  “Have you ever seen a hanging, Elizabeth?”

  She nodded. Who had not, in this city, across the years? Before the war, it was the usual criminals, and since then, the spies and traitors to one side or the other, depending on who occupied the city at the time. Drawn by childish curiosity, she had always stood at a distance when young, but not in recent years, not since this damn war had descended upon them.

  “Allen and I stood only feet away when his friend Major Andre was hanged,” he sighed. “You could hear his neck snap when he fell off the cart and the rope went taut. It is a fate I would wish on no man.

  “But,” again he paused. “It is what war does to us and I have seen far too many men die in far worse agony from gunshot, frostbite, smallpox, and fevers. Hanging could almost be seen as a mercy at times.”

  “Would you hang your old friend if you captured him?”

  He fell silent, looking back at the flight of stairs, obviously debating whether to ascend them or not. He finally sighed and looked back at her.

  “The secret is out by now,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Once this army is clear of this city and the Delaware River, there is nothing on earth that Clinton can do to stop us on the march. It would take two days at least to report back what transpired here today, by then the army should be below Wilmington and at the head of the Chesapeake Bay.

  “No matter how tight the cordon I’ve put out, others have, without doubt, reported back by now and will continue to do so. In ten days’ time, Lord willing, we will be where we intend, and then it is up to fate. It will be for God, the winds, the strength of these men, and General Washington to decide.”

  He held her with his gaze.

  “The report of one more bedraggled spy will change little now.”

  She said nothing.

  He had turned to one side while looking up at the staircase, and as he turned back to face her, she saw he had a light pistol in his hand, cocked.

  He uncocked the weapon and tucked it into his belt.

  He bowed slightly.

  “I wish you well, Elizabeth,” he said, and started for the open door.

  She followed him, coming up to his side.

  “Peter,” and her hand slipped back into his.

  He gazed at her, eyes cold.

  “Not a word, Elizabeth. Not a damn word. Whatever I felt for Allen, that is now dead. It is purely pragmatic now. What harm is a report long after we are gone? If anything, it will only sow panic and confusion, and knowing all I do about Clinton, yet more councils of war between generals and admirals, and yet more days will pass. In a week’s time they’ll read about it in all the Philadelphia newspapers—how this army marched through, right down to the exact number of regiments and pieces of artillery. It doesn’t matter now.”

  Yet, she could see he was lying.

  “God protect you, Peter Wellsley,” she whispered, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek.

  She felt a tremor of emotion from Peter and his eyes misting over. He swallowed hard, and then as if driven by impulse, he embraced her.

  “Always remember what I said to you back in the spring. My feelings for you will never change.”

  Choked with emotion she slipped out of his embrace, thinking of the man she loved sleeping in the room above, but at the same time her feelings for Peter were there as well, reinforced by the realization that he was betraying his own code of honor with what he was now doing.

  As she looked back into his eyes she saw his features had hardened.

  “I never would have believed that even you would offer aid to a damn Tory,” he whispered. “Maybe when this war is over I’ll see it differently, but not now.”

  “I think you already do see it differently.”

  He looked back at her crossly.

  “One more word and I will go back up those stairs.”

  She remained silent, her silence, she could see, all but a signal that he did, indeed, know the truth but would not act upon it.

  He stepped out onto the stoop where, for the first time, she noticed that several Pennsylvania militiamen waited, muskets unslung and at the ready.

  “You’re mistaken,” he announced. “He didn’t flee here. Let’s go.”

  He didn’t look back even once as he stalked off, the three militiamen following, one of them looking back crossly at her. That one must have trailed Allen here, she realized.

  “God protect you, Peter,” she whispered.

  She closed the door and locked it shut. Going to a shuttered window, she peeked out for several minutes to ensure that no one had stopped and gone into waiting at the corner or nearby alleyway. Meanwhile the street was increasingly filled with revelers.

  The house was stifling hot as she went out into the kitchen, bolted the back door, and paused for a second to look at the fireplace. The note—the writing on it must have been visible—was now crumbled to ashes.

  She then went up the stairs and slipped into her bedroom. Allen was actually fast asleep, oblivious to how close he had come to capture and death. At the sight of him her heart swelled with joy and relief. Yes, she had used him long ago to gain information, but even then that feeling had changed. Now, after three years of separation and these long months of living alone, no one from either side really trusting her, the decision was not difficult at all as she loosened the stays of her corset, slipped out of it, still modestly keeping her long skirt on. She slipped into her bed by his side and held him close. He did not stir from his exhausted sleep—perhaps that was for the best—nor did he notice or feel the tears of relief and happiness on his shoulder as she held him and drifted off to sleep by his side, knowing what would happen when both awakened.

  Eleven

  PHILADELPHIA

  EVENTIDE

  AUGUST 29, 1781

  Sighing, General Washington leaned back in his chair, the wooden legs creaking. He looked away from Robert Morris and back to the half-empty glass of claret, the heavy crystal goblet sparkling in the candlelight.

  Morris’s dining room was richly appointed, and it was apparent t
hat at least one French ship running supplies past the British blockade carried as well cases of the best of wine and champagne from France. Somehow the richly upholstered chairs, the silver setting for twelve, silver candelabra at the center of the mahogany dining table, the medieval tapestry of unicorns adorning a wall, and even the polished brass tools for the fireplace, had replaced those confiscated during the British occupation.

  Though the table had been set for twelve, the only other man, sitting to the other side of Washington, and who Morris had insisted place himself at the head of the table, was President Laurens. Laurens had remained silent except for a few polite comments now and again, while the meal, a saddle of lamb with all the trimmings, had been served.

  He had little appetite for it now, and was glad when it was removed. He refused the brandy offered so he could keep a clear head, and merely took a light sip now and again from his wine, refusing a topping off of his glass.

  “I know this news comes as shock, General Washington.”

  He looked back at Morris. There was a time when he had held this man in the lowest regard, since he had obviously made great profit from this war, and was rumored for a while to have been part of the Gates conspiracy to have him removed from command. While having gained position as treasurer of the Confederation, a post that had been left vacant far too long because of Congress’s obsessive fear of “centralizing too much power in one man,” Morris had, indeed, come through the previous fortnight with the first real pay the men had seen in more than half a year, and supplies purchased and stockpiled along the route of march. He had come through.

  But to come this far, and then hear this news!

  “Sir, to call it a shock is an understatement,” Washington finally replied, keeping his voice calm though ready inwardly to explode.

  Morris looked over at Laurens for support.

  “Sir, the treasury is bled dry. We marshaled every shilling to be found just to underwrite the cost of moving the army this far. It is bled dry.”

  “If I am to accept that,” Washington replied, and now there was a touch of anger in his voice, “perhaps the only recourse left is to stop the army in place here and go no farther.”

  “What?” Laurens was obviously shocked by this statement.

  “Exactly that, sir.”

  “How?”

  “It is not a question of how,” Washington replied, carefully choosing his words so as not to imply the slightest threat. “Most of the men, up until your efforts of several weeks back, had not seen any real pay, other than useless paper, in years. What they did receive was a month, maybe two months at most. That raised their spirits somewhat, but as they marched here, rumors swept the ranks, rumors I could not contain, that once in Philadelphia more pay would greet them.”

  Laurens sighed, shaking his head.

  “Do not take this as even the slightest of insults, General,” the president of Congress said, “but they do know what they are fighting for, don’t they?”

  Washington did take it as an insult, but kept it contained. Surely this man, whose only son was on his staff, understood the issue. A lucky few, such as the Laurenses, had homes, even plantations that could support them, even in time of war, but the rank and file? Most were either small farmers, shopkeepers, or laborers before the war started. The issue of pay was not directly about them, it was about families back home, some behind enemy lines, some with homes, farms, and stores looted and destroyed, families dispossessed and living on the charity of others, while husbands and sons stayed with the army.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Gentlemen. I beg to know that you are fully aware of where my own heart stands on this, where my role as general of the armies rests in relationship to this government.”

  He looked at the two who thankfully nodded in agreement.

  “Yet I must press to you the case of the men who look to me for leadership. Yes, they know the cause they fight for, but they also read letters from home that unless there is some pay, something to at least buy food with, their families will starve come winter. I’ve been shown letters in which wives, mothers, daughters, loyal to our cause for years, are now lamenting that unless given succor, they will appeal to their men to lay down their arms and come home, otherwise by spring there will be no home to return to. What do I say to them tomorrow when after ordering them to shoulder arms and press on to Yorktown, they cry out for pay, a just pay for all they have endured, and will still endure?”

  “Surely they will continue on regardless?” Laurens replied as if to reassure himself.

  Washington sighed and set his glass down, and to his embarrassed dismay, he fumbled the glass and it spilled over on the table. Morris started to call for a servant, but Washington already had his napkin out, and, angry with himself that his pent-up emotions had manifested themselves with such clumsiness, mopped up the drink, though it had stained the embroidered tablecloth.

  “Do you know what more than one of my men did with their pay last week?” he asked, gaze fixed on Laurens.

  “Sir?”

  “There was a soldier with a New York regiment. Discharged due to consumption and unable to make this march. The men of his company, some cut the coin they received in half, entrusted it to him, and asked that it be given to their family. More than one man just handed over the entire coin.”

  The other two were silent.

  “Patriotism, gentleman, is noble for the soul and warms the heart of any good and honorable man, but it does not feed the empty stomach of a child at home. There have been times when I was tempted to block all mail coming into the encampments because the day after it was delivered, at morning roll call…” He sighed and looked off as if to some distant place. “There were morning roll calls where I had lost more men in a single night than in a battle. I saw the letters that drove them to this, pleas for them to come home after six years of service in a war with no end in sight, families impoverished, thrown out of their homes, and forced to the dishonor of living off the charity of neighbors and friends. Wives have died with no husband there to mourn them or tend to their children who were now living off of public charity. That is something no man of honor can bear, that children were starving, and children they had never even seen had been born and then died…”

  His voice trailed off for a moment.

  “There was a time,” he whispered, “that when forced by the necessity of war I have with the greatest reluctance ordered a deserter to be shot, but no longer. Not when a noble man stands before me in tears, who has been with me since Long Island, who stood at Trenton, Princeton, Brandywine, Germantown, the winter of Valley Forge and the triumph at Monmouth, and tells me to go ahead and shoot him dead for desertion after all of that. Then to strip his body bare of his tattered uniform and send that uniform home to his wife and children so that they can perhaps sell the buttons for food.”

  He lowered his head and feared that for the first time in years someone other than Martha would see him in actual tears. He was exhausted beyond all measure, not just from this fatiguing march in boiling August heat, but from all of the years of this war.

  “That is a true story. I faced it not two months ago, gentlemen,” and his voice was near to breaking.

  “I could not shoot him. I was forced to order a dozen lashes,” he hesitated, “and I had word sent to the quartermaster applying the lashes to do so lightly.”

  He looked at Laurens and then back to Morris.

  “That man is still with the ranks. I saw him pass in review this afternoon, his eyes meeting mine as if saying ‘See, I am still here though my uniform is in tatters, I am barefoot, and my children have not seen me in years. I am a Patriot and still here.’

  “Gentleman, I could barely face his gaze. Although, Mr. Morris, I do thank you that the largesse of the last pay will at least keep his family in food for a week or two, if it ever reaches them. They live in territory that is within enemy lines, and no one will take pity on them. I pray for his sake that some decent Chr
istian will smuggle the money through to his family.

  “Gentlemen, we have staked, as was written in our Declaration, our lives and our sacred honor upon this cause, as we must and should have as its leaders. But to the thousands of men in my infantry of the line, and the men who follow Knox and Harry Lee? They, too, have staked their lives and tens of thousands so far have given those lives up upon the altar of freedom, but their families, gentlemen? I plead now not for a coin just to be dropped in their pocket. Frankly, I would not give a single shilling’s worth for any man who fights solely for his own pay and prospect of booty. Let our enemies have such values, though I suspect more than a few in their ranks, if given the freedom of choice, would turn aside from this war if they could.

  “But for our men? Something, anything, so that they can rest assured while braving this venture fraught with peril ahead of us, that they, at least, have a grateful nation that will see to the welfare of their families, whether they live or die in the weeks ahead.” He felt he had spoken too much and lowered his head.

  There was a long silence during which Washington picked up his now empty crystal goblet, but refused Morris’s offer of a refill.

  Laurens looked over at Morris.

  “We’ve managed at least to gather some supplies in Maryland,” Laurens replied, nervously clearing his throat, “but that is slim at best.”

  “And Virginia?”

  “Mr. Jefferson said he will redouble his efforts. I know you heard he was almost captured recently by Tarleton’s raiders, escaping only minutes ahead of them.”

  Washington could not help but smile at the thought of it. His respect for Thomas was boundless. It was his genius more than any other that had drafted the Declaration, but after six years of war, when a soldier heard of the momentary discomfort of a civilian administrator, the feeling was that, at least, it gave a taste of what those on the front line faced every day.

  Something that did mystify him was the fact that raiders had not been dispatched to loot and burn his beloved Mt. Vernon. In moments of more generous contemplation of his opponents, he had to admit that there were still some “rules” to this war. Benedict Arnold was responsible for much of the mayhem this year in central Virginia, and he did wonder if some remaining shred of a now-lost friendship had resulted in a quiet order that protected his home and Martha. Regardless, standing orders still remained that if Arnold was ever captured he was to be summarily hanged, having already been found guilty in absentia, and condemned to the rope.