Being George Washington (18 page)

With the last of the twilight dripping through the heavy trees, Laurens looked up the road and narrowed his eyes. The two vanguards had fallen back now, moving closer to the cart. Once full darkness had set in, they would ride beside them, keeping a close watch for any potential saboteurs.

“Long and dusty road to Congress,” the rider said. “Don’t think we’ll be able to make it all the way without stopping at least once to get a drink.” He hoped that this time the single-minded colonel would get the hint.

“We walk tonight,” John Laurens answered quickly. “I want to get some distance between us and the bloody Tories. They infect the ports of Boston like rats crawling from a ship too long at sea.”

The rider nudged his horse toward the covered cart. “Six million is a sizable sum of money to protect,” he said.

“It is,” was all his leader replied.

“The French were fair on to be generous.”

“Very generous, I would say.”

“But is it enough to make a difference? That is the question I would put you, sir.”

“Enough to save our necks would be my answer. Enough to feed our army through the summer. Enough to supply more than a few forts and buy balls for our cannons. Damn the Congress for their lack of honor, but God bless our friends, the French.”

The colonel paused, suppressing a smile. “Course, it probably didn’t hurt to point out to them that if we fall to the British, we’d be forced to reinforce the redcoat armies. Our dear French friends realized it’s easier to help us now than to fight us later—that would be my guess.”

The rider thought of all the money underneath the tightly wrapped cotton tarp. The equivalent of six million French livres. An impossible sum! He was an educated man, but he couldn’t fathom what even a single million meant. It was a word, not a figure. But he did know that the money completely filled the cart. He knew it was going to save his army, or at least buy them a little time. And he knew it was a miracle that they had it—one they owed to John Laurens, the officer (and son of Henry Laurens) who had been tasked by Congress to go and plead for the loan from King Louis XVI. It was a mission he had accomplished, like every other war task he’d ever been assigned.

Having recently arrived on board a ship in Boston, they were now on their way to deliver the money to the Congress, which, as one of the forward riders had noted, would surely waste it.

“You are a man of wonder,” the horseman said as he stared at the load.

“No, sir, not so,” Laurens was quick to answer.

“We would be lost without you.”

Laurens nearly scoffed. “We can suffer the loss of any man but one, and that man is surely not me! I am not responsible for this money, George Washington is. If we had sent Washington’s dog to the king then that dog would have had the money tied around his neck and sent on his way. The French generals call him one of the greatest captains of our age. The French king happens to agree with them. That is why we have this money, sir: General Washington and his honor. This had not but anything to do with me!”

The two men fell into silence once again. The horse shortened her steps to match the trudging of the cart. The moon rose over the heavy trees, casting a pale light. The road was clear before them, a trail of gray-white dirt against the darkness of the forest.

A short time later, John Laurens looked up. “We’ll move all night,” he said. “Much less likely to meet one of any concern while traveling at
night. And Congress waits for us. So we’ll walk, then make camp in the morning, taking our rest where we may.”

The rider shook his head. He wanted to rest now. “Morning will come slowly.”

“As does the patience of a soldier waiting to be paid. The patience of a soldier waiting for a shirt or a meal. The patience of a wife who needs a bit of penny to make up for the lost wages of her man. All good things come slowly. Victory comes slowly! Yet we have waited long enough!

“The general grows inpatient. He is ready for a final battle, a final strike to see this through. The storm winds gather for the last pitch. It is coming, I am sure. What we have in this cart may allow him to accelerate his actions. So gird yourselves and keep on walking, for tonight we do not rest.”

July 1781

White Plains, New York

Twenty miles north of New York City

It was late at night. The smell of pine hung heavy in the still-humid air. A few coyotes yelped at each other from the hills along the river, but they were the only sound that could be heard—astounding when one considered that thousands of men slept nearby.

The stars were shining brightly, though occasional clouds passed by, temporarily blocking any light from the heavens. Two wax candles had been placed on the portable camp table, but both of them were burning low and would soon go out. In the dim light, General Washington stared in frustration at his map. It was roughly drawn, and not to scale, but still useful as he considered the next step in his military campaign.

The next step … the next step.

His chest tightened in frustration. It was becoming a familiar feeling.

He placed his arms on the table and rested his chin on them. He kept his eyes on the map, though it was getting difficult to see. In truth, he didn’t really need the map anyway. He could have drawn it from memory, and, as a former surveyor, probably with greater accuracy. He had walked, ridden, marched, or sailed from the wilderness in the west to the
busy ports of Boston; from his beloved Mount Vernon to points much farther south. He knew every river, town, and valley of any consequence.

And the geography wasn’t all he knew. He also knew the people’s strengths and weaknesses in each area. He knew what made them breathe and tick. He knew what scared and motivated them. He had fought for this land. He had watched men bleed and die here. He had commanded men to die for the soil underneath his feet. Indeed, he had surrendered his own life, every good and every pleasure, in the fight to make this land free.

But sometimes he wondered, What if it’s not enough?

These were the moments that brought him the most terror; late at night, when he was alone, waves of panic crashing into him from the darkness and the quiet. Had he done everything he could? Had he paid a price sufficient to purchase the freedom of an entire people, an entire land? Did his people want it enough? Were they willing to pay the ultimate price?

He thought of his starving army at Valley Forge, his men clothed in rags, many of them shoeless in the bitter winter, eating rats and squirrels, anything for the taste of meat. Eating bark. Dirt. Worms. He thought of the humiliation he had suffered when the French general Rochambeau looked upon his army, and had then written to his superiors, begging them to “send us troops, ships and money, but do not depend upon these people nor upon their means.” He thought of the fact that he had once needed to send an urgent message to Rhode Island, but had no money for the post.

Considering the frustrations of the last six years, so many dark days and disappointments, so much misery and hunger, he had to wonder if anyone outside of his army was willing to purchase liberty? Did God want this for this people? Had they paid the final price?

He didn’t know. He really didn’t.

And that scared him more than any bullet or bayonet on any battlefield.

The general took a deep breath, looked up at the ragged tent around him, then turned back to the map. Squinting to see, he traced his finger down the seaboard, tapping the primary locations where they’d already
had major military engagements. Boston. The miracle at Long Island. Harlem Heights. Fort Lee. The majesty of the surprise victory at Trenton. A dozen more.

After a series of humiliating defeats, his new commander of the southern army, General Greene, had prosecuted the war with stunning bravery against a much more powerful foe. His throat grew tight with pride when he considered what they had done. The brilliant tactics in a pasture called Cowpens. A two-hundred-mile march though the winter in only fifteen days. A paralyzing siege at Augusta.

He was so proud of his army. He loved them, each and every man. He had spent the best years of his life in their service. He would spend his last breath, if it were necessary, to see this through—though he fervently prayed that it wouldn’t be, for neither his army nor his people would last that long.

A war is an existing, living, breathing thing. It is born, it grows, it ripens then it dies. It cannot live forever, though it certainly may seem that way to the men who fight in it. And, like all living things, it changes and adapts, one side finally giving way to the grander will of the other. And this war was growing ripe now. If he knew of anything for sure, he knew that. He could feel it. Both sides were wearing down. It was time for a decisive battle. Time to break away. Time for a victory that would bring this war to an end!

But where to strike? That was the question, one that he and his war council had been arguing about for weeks with no clear decision.

Washington traced his finger down the sides of the map, moving along the coastline. The sea. Ah, the sea. It seemed to always come down to the ocean, for that was what carried the British navy and, along with it, a seemingly endless series of defeats.

No one understood the power of the sea more than he did, or how critical naval superiority was to winning the war. Earlier that year he had virtually begged anyone who would listen for a strong navy—but not even he, as persuasive and single-minded as he was, could create one out of thin air.

The Continental Congress had ordered the construction of a small navy, mostly through the purchase and conversion of existing ships—frigates, sloops, and schooners—but these were not the kind of vessels
that would instill fear or hesitation in the hearts of the British admirals. Knowing they couldn’t compete with the mighty British men-of-war, the colonial vessels instead limited themselves to guerrilla attacks against merchant ships, leaving him with few, if any, real naval forces under his command.

It was like a band of pirates squaring off against the most powerful navy in the world.

Washington thought back to the Battle of New York and his chest again grew tight. He couldn’t think of that day in August without feeling slightly sick to his stomach. He could still picture it all as if it had just happened: the terrifying sight of the British armada sailing into New York harbor; mast upon mast and ship upon ship. The enemy warships were packed so tightly together that he thought he could have walked from one shore to the other without getting wet.

Throughout the previous six years of war, the British had controlled America’s sea-lanes, harbors, and the points of entry into every important waterway or river. If that continued there was no way that the rebels could ever win. That left Washington in the unseemly position of begging the French. And while they always offered critical support, time and again they’d failed to actually deliver on it, leaving his army weakened and exposed, unable to force the hand of the British or to press any advantage they might have otherwise gained.

He hated the humiliation that came with being stood up by the French! He hated the sense of powerlessness! He hated the fate of war being in the hands of other men!

But things were turning. He could feel it.

The gods of war were smiling upon him now. For one thing, the British fleet had been caught in a violent storm, suffering significant damage (a storm that, providentially, spared the French ships). Though the fleet was eventually repaired, the setback had opened up an opportunity for the French to harass the traitor Benedict Arnold and his British troops, who had been pillaging throughout southern Virginia.

General Cornwallis, meanwhile, had been chased from most of the South (God bless General Greene again!), leaving only the areas around Savannah and Charleston under British control. Soon after, Cornwallis had virtually abandoned his southern campaign and instead decided to
march his army to Virginia, where he would join forces with Benedict Arnold. But General Lafayette had cut him off, forcing him toward the coast and away from Arnold’s army, making a union of their forces impossible.

Washington moved his finger two inches to the south, resting it near the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, indicating where General Cornwallis had decided to take refuge.

It was quiet port city called Yorktown.

August 3, 1781

Yorktown, Virginia

Lord Charles Cornwallis stared at his aide-de-camp. The lesser-ranking officer lowered his eyes in fear. Cornwallis was a distinguished man in every way, imposing, handsome, impatient, and prideful to the core. It bothered him that he had spent so much of his illustrious career fighting an insurrection of these impervious colonial snips. But what had started out as frustration had grown into anger, then exploded into a nearly constant rage, making all of his subordinates toe the line when he was near.

“You’ve made straight the outer bastions?” the general demanded.

“Aye, Your Excellency, we have,” the colonel replied smartly.

“And what have you done. What progress do you report?”

“As your command, sir, we have now a chain of seven redoubts and batteries. They sweep from the river on the east for two thousand yards to the south. These, sir, are now linked by earthworks. Our men have been digging very proudly. Along with the earthworks, we have batteries that cover from the narrows of the York River down hither to Gloucester Point.”

Lord Cornwallis smiled in satisfaction. The small city of Yorktown was almost perfectly defensible. Strong walls. Rock and earthen redoubts that could hold under the most intense attacks. Behind him, the banks dropped steeply into the Chesapeake Bay, allowing British ships to port as needed to bring him additional men or supplies. He had food. Horses. Plenty of ammunition. He could stay the entire fall here, or the winter if he had to, though he hoped it would not come to that.

Cornwallis turned to the colonel and softened his tone, if only for a moment. “Your men have done good work here. Yorktown is nigh unto impenetrable. It would take an army of ten thousand before we would even feel their presence. I commend you for your efforts. Tell your men to stay sharp, and by half a fortnight we’ll have a new supply of ale.”