“Based on what, sir, may I beg to ask?” Smith’s voice clearly indicated exhausted defeat.
Clinton smiled.
“Let us first consider that our noble friends in the navy have not properly disposed of the French fleet. Can you imagine the slaughter if I embark my men and our Hessians on to the transports you refer to, and somewhere down the Jersey coast we run afoul of Barre and his ships of the line? It would be a slaughter. For that reason alone, I will not risk this garrison. It could be that Cornwallis is in no crisis at all, our fleet already having defeated the French navy, but if I follow your advice and then lose this army at sea and thus lose the war?”
He shook his head like an angry bear.
“No, sir,” he snapped, “I will not have history remember me as the army’s equivalent of Byng. No, sir.”
Smith did not reply.
“Write out a dispatch to Cornwallis this morning. Inform him of our latest intelligence and tell him to expect the arrival of Washington and Rochambeau with ten thousand men under arms in a fortnight. My orders are to properly coordinate holding his position at Yorktown, with the navy of course responsible for securing his lines of communications and supply. If the situation warrants that he personally feels he cannot hold, he must then clearly inform me of his distress or fear of failure, and then, and only then, with proper discretion, will I transfer men of this command to reinforce him. When he personally and specifically declares in writing that he has boxed himself into a situation that requires me to intervene on his behalf, then I will do so.”
He looked up at Allen.
“You, Colonel, please rewrite your report clearly, with proper hand, on decent paper as you were trained to do. That report will be included in the dispatch sent to Cornwallis.”
Neither Smith or Allen spoke for a moment, though the glances exchanged between them spoke volumes. The general was covering himself, and putting onto Cornwallis the onus of asking for support to rescue him. If those reinforcements were then ambushed at sea and lost, and with it New York, it would be Cornwallis who must face the king and a possible court-martial, and not Clinton. If then reinforced, finally, and victory achieved, it would be Clinton who had come as the savior to pull Cornwallis’s chestnuts out of the fire, as the Americans say, and the glory to Clinton as well.
Allen stiffened.
“A request, sir.”
“And that is?”
“Let me go with the dispatch ship and report directly to General Cornwallis all that I observed. I think a firsthand report to him from someone who actually observed and followed the enemy forces would be of far more value than a mere written report.”
Clinton took that in, and just continued to gaze at him.
“Why do you volunteer like this?”
He, of course, did not say what he felt in his heart. That he was sick to death of all of this, of three years here in New York, of the way his friend John had died in a miserable effort of stealth to snatch West Point, that a bold force led by a bold leader could have achieved in a damn good proper stand-up fight. He was sick of all of it, and if there was to be action that decided this war he wished to be there where his services would be of greater value.
None of this he said.
“Sir. I think my duties in New Jersey are no longer necessary. It is held by a few militia and nothing more. The main army will be in Virginia and perhaps my experience can be of service to General Cornwallis given the knowledge I have of them.”
Clinton actually forced a smile.
“Not jumping ship are we?”
“No, sir, of course not; the thought never has crossed my mind.” His years of work had taught him to at least be a halfway decent liar some of the time.
“Go then.”
He formally saluted, catching the eye of Colonel Smith, and thought he caught the flicker of a smile.
“I’ll arrange a courier ship to depart with the tide this afternoon,” Smith said. “Remain here for now and once I’ve finished the dispatches you can carry them. God go with you, Colonel van Dorn.”
Withdrawing, Allen was glad to be out of that room, already stifling with the rising morning heat. To get out of here would be a damn blessing, he thought as he walked down the steps of the mansion, out onto the lawn. Looking about he thought to hell with decorum and a proper display at all times of a proper officer in service to the king. He picked out the shade of a willow tree not unlike the one in the painting of the two lovers. He knew it’d take several hours for all the dispatches and orders to be written out and properly stamped and sealed.
To hell with propriety, he thought as he leaned back against the tree. The view across the East River could almost be considered romantic, except for the fact that down the river, within view, were where the accursed prison hulks sat. Fortunately the wind was not coming from their direction and carrying with it the fetid stench of that hell.
He took off his hat, wiped his sweating brow with the sleeve of his heavy wool uniform, leaned back, closed his eyes, and thought of Elizabeth—what it would be like to have her by his side now, as she was but a few days ago—and he drifted into an exhausted sleep.
ON THE ROAD BETWEEN HEAD OF ELK, MARYLAND, AND CHESTER, PENNSYLVANIA
SEPTEMBER 5, 1781
He still felt guilt over what he had done. Perhaps it was the perverted hunger in the eyes of the Philadelphia militiaman, never obvious in a real battle, but the sick kind of man who took delight in watching another man die, the type that enjoyed a “good hanging.”
Did he spare him out of a friendship he could not fully break? Was it pity for the fear in Elizabeth’s eyes, a cousin he had loved at a distance since still a lad and the war had yet to come? Was it disgust with the all but drooling militia man eager to see a killing, or as he tried to assuage his guilt now, a sense of what General Washington had implied the night before at a council of war that he had attended? The army had cleared New Jersey without incident, and it no longer mattered what Clinton knew, if anything, in New York. He kept trying to tell himself that had been the reason. It would have taken Allen a day and a half, more likely two or even three days, to get back to New York, if he could successfully dodge the patrols. By then they would be on the march again, approaching the northern shore of the Chesapeake. Let Clinton then wander into New Jersey after them; they had a two-week lead. The deeper Clinton ventured into Jersey the more he would be dogged by militia cutting up his supply lines. Let them. If Clinton turned north to try to take West Point, that was a risk he was willing to take. If he now tried to reach Cornwallis and the French fleet failed to appear, or worse yet, were destroyed, then all was moot anyhow. So let them know.
Perhaps, he reasoned yet again, that is why he did not go up that flight of stairs. The general was all but saying they were clear of the deadly threat of marching directly past Clinton in New York. They had not stirred and now nothing could stop this army from linking up with Greene and Lafayette in Virginia.
“Rider coming.”
Peter stirred from his depressed musing and looked up. The day, like nearly every day of this march, was one of oppressive heat and dust. The column of the American troops was stringing out, standard march discipline having broken down from the heat and exhaustion. Men shuffled along at their own pace, step after step, a thousand paces to the mile, five hundred miles, one million paces. Those broken down from the heat and illness lined the road, especially around bottomland muddy creeks, where they could find cool air and a soak to cool off, before donning gear and falling back into the ranks.
Thanks to the miracle of Robert Morris, the talk of refusing to advance farther had been stilled. Though when the men had formed up to be paid, and only received on average a month and a half’s worth in hard cash, it had been enough to still the voices of some who had been whispering about marching back on Philadelphia and looting the “rich bastards” clean and then go home. Of the men remaining in the ranks, everyone was there because he was there to make the march, and unless d
ropped by exhaustion, would press on. Washington had given orders for provost guards to go lightly, to issue passes freely if need be, and more than one provost had surrendered his saddle, often with two exhausted men mounted, while the provost held the bridle and led his mount. He had seen many a good officer, doing the same, surrendering the symbol and privilege of rank to an exhausted young private. That was now another thing about this army of Revolution. The haughty officers, the ones so full of themselves with their rank and privileges, men like Gates and Charles Lee, had long ago been driven from this army. Those that remained were men who knew how to lead and inspire. Sergeants, which was too often the rank of bullies in other armies and had been in this one at the start, were now mostly older men, often of fatherly demeanor, who shouldered a staggering private’s musket and pack to encourage him to try for just for a few more miles and stay in the ranks.
The rider could be seen, coming up the middle of the road at a full gallop, standing in his stirrups, riding like a madman, waving his hat high. Peter, the only other mounted man visible, drew to one side of the road, and at the sight of him the rider began to rein in, but did not come to a full stop.
“General Washington?” he cried.
“I think about three miles or so behind me,” Peter replied, turning his mount around and falling in beside the wide-eyed courier.
“Take me to him!” he shouted and spurred his lathered mount back up to a gallop.
Something was up, and Peter felt he at least had the excuse to ride by his side, having been asked to guide, and, of course, curiosity filled him. He did feel a tremor of fear. Perhaps the man carried word of disaster, that Cornwallis had broken out, defeated Lafayette, and was even turning back toward the Carolinas. Thus tauntingly offering a long, stern chase, with the advantage on his side that he could loot supplies as he retired, and leave broken bridges, poisoned wells, and burned houses and barns in his wake. That, or maybe the French fleet had abandoned their effort, or worse had been destroyed by storm or battle.
“What is it?’ Peter cried, coming up by the man’s side, his mount still relatively fresh.
“Orders for the general only!” the rider shouted, leaning forward, spurring the sides of his poor mount so that the horse was bleeding.
Turning a bend in the road, Peter saw Washington was not directly on the road, having moved into an orchard for a noonday break. The rider would have gone past him without noticing, so wild was he to press forward. Peter shouted, pointed, and the rider turned his mount, still at the gallop, as if to try to jump the fence, but wisely chose instead to angle along the side of the split-rail fence to an opening and then dashed through, Peter just behind him.
Still fifty yards off, he again stood tall in his stirrups, the troops who had been shuffling along the road to either side stopping, looking, some turning back to find out what was afoot.
“It’s the French!” the rider shouted. “The French navy!”
The long night of planning out the day’s march, of sending foragers ahead to try to bring in supplies to set by the side of the road for the passing regiments, to bring in fresh beef that he had promised to Rochambeau and his men, had left Washington exhausted. He had felt fine starting out in the morning, but though he was a Virginian, the heat of midday had begun to tell and he had accepted Alexander Hamilton’s insistence that “the general” at least rest for a half hour or so before pressing on. The orchard looked inviting, it reminded him of home, and the rich scent of ripening apples was soothing as he stretched out under one of the trees for a short nap. The horses were let loose to crop on the grass and the first of the fallen fruit.
“Rider coming in,” Hamilton had announced at the man’s approach, followed by young Wellsley, tasked this day with staying close to the head of the march and through his New Jersey past, to help with negotiating with neighboring farms to part with precious supplies for the army staggering by.
He stood up, his staff coming to their feet around him.
“It’s the French!” He heard the cry and his heart froze at that instant.
Disaster, he thought. De Grasse was not coming or had been destroyed. Word had come in yesterday that the English fleet in New York had sallied forth. With a good following breeze they might already be drawing close to the mouth of the Chesapeake, but it was far too early for any news of that coming up from the south of Virginia. If Hood had decided to face de Grasse alone, though, with the vagaries of action at sea, who could tell the outcome? He felt his stomach knot up. If the French had been defeated or decided to retreat, here he had an army halfway between two points. To turn them about now, to march back through Philadelphia would be an act of utter humiliation, and after the near collapse over lack of pay but a few days past, the city was, indeed, stripped clean of every last shilling to be found. The men knew that, and the thought of now marching them clear back to New York through land stripped clean by their passage was impossible. Press forward? Backed and supplied by the enemy fleet, the siege would drag out forever, the land there stripped of supplies as well, winter would come, and the army would disintegrate, the gamble lost.
He waited and the rider, looking like a man who had just escaped from a madhouse, suddenly appeared to realize the nature of his mission and position. He slowed, reined in breathing hard, Wellsley coming up by his side, a glance to the young colonel showing he knew nothing of what this was about.
The rider, realizing he was now before Washington, came to rigid attention and saluted, swaying a bit in the saddle as if half drunk.
“Reporting, sir, from General Lafayette,” he cried and started to fumble with the dispatch case by his side, unable now to open the latch.
“Well, out with it, man,” Washington snapped, “just tell me, surely you know.”
“It’s the French, sir.”
“I already heard you.”
“Sir, General Lafayette begs to report that the fleet of Admiral de Grasse, twenty-six ships of the line, is at this moment anchored within the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay having blocked all access in or out by the Royal navy and at this moment has successfully sealed the forces of Cornwallis encamped at Yorktown from all resupply or retreat by sea.”
Washington stood silent as if struck by a bolt of lightning and was now welded to the earth.
“May I see the dispatch, now,” he finally asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
The rider, hands trembling, fumbled with the latch until Peter just leaned over, grabbed the pouch, tore it open, snapping off the latch, reached in and pulled out the folded sheet of paper, and leaping from his mount, handed it to his general.
Washington broke the seal, opened the note, scanned it, and his eyes clouded with tears.
“It’s true,” he gasped. “Praise to God in Heaven, it’s true!”
As he spoke his words changed from a gasp to a shout.
“It’s true, the French fleet led by de Grasse is with us!”
Seconds later wild hysterical cheering erupted from the staff, Hamilton running down to the edge of the fence row, climbing atop it, lifting his hat, troops along the line of march having stopped to see what all the commotion was about.
“Boys, the French are here! Their fleet is blockading Cornwallis and his bastards! They’re trapped like rats in a barrel and waiting for us to finish it! Three cheers for France and to hell with Cornwallis!”
The word instantly leaped down the road, sweeping through company after company.
Unable to contain himself, Washington shouted for Billy Lee to mount up and bring his horse and saddle up.
“Where is General Rochambeau?” he cried. No one was really sure other than that he and some of his command were last seen on a barge just north of Chester, moving down the Delaware River to disembark on the far side of the town to start the short trek across Delaware state to the headwaters of the Chesapeake.
Washington set off at a gallop.
Across six years, no one had ever seen their stoic, phlegmatic general like this. T
he sight of it actually frightened some. Perhaps after the stress of all these years, some overwhelming news of disaster had at last broken him. He galloped full out, barely slowing to weave around a laboring team of horses dragging a heavy twelve-pounder, hat gone, but as he passed his cry, his thunderous voice echoed the word.
“The French are with us, lads. Their fleet has arrived! The French fleet is with us!”
Knox, leading his column, watched thunderstruck as Washington charged past him, not even slowing to offer a customary salute, and in fact not even recognizing his portly commander of artillery. The cry reached Knox, who turned his poor overburdened mount gasping as he spurred it to fall in with the wild, hysterical with joy officers charging back up the road.
“The French are with us, lads!”
More than a few of the heat-exhausted infantry, misunderstanding at first, grumbled and cursed that yes the damn French are with us. With money in their pockets and in their gaudy white uniforms they had certainly been with them in Philadelphia, their Gallic charm winning over more than one lass during their stop there. Finally the word trailing behind their general, who seemed driven to some insanity, arrived, cheers echoing behind Washington, and seconds later any cursing of the French changed to shouts of joy.
He reached the outskirts of the south side of Chester, the docks lining the river with barges offloading a regiment of French infantry.
“Rochambeau!” It was Washington shouting over and over. White-clad troops stared at him at first with disbelief at his strange behavior, then pointed up the river where a heavy barge approached bearing the general and his staff, turning in from the flow of the river and approaching the dock.
“Something is wrong,” and General Jean Baptiste Rochambeau stirred from his musings, his inward cursing of the blasted heat of this country, the swarms of mosquitoes that were an endless torment even out in the middle of this river that smelled almost as bad as the Seine in the middle of Paris. One of his staff was pointing to the dock and the sight that greeted him was, for a moment, actually amusing.
Victory at Yorktown: A Novel Page 23
