The Glorious Cause (73 page)

O
CTOBER 9, 1781

The invitation had come from Knox, the rotund man’s cannons nearly all in position. Washington never gave thought to this sort of ceremony, but Knox had insisted. He stood now with the gun crew, the men still tending to their gun, one man wiping the barrel with a dirty cloth. Knox said, “Prepare to fire!”

The gun was rolled back, the barrel swabbed by a man with a ramrod, another man stepping forward, stuffing a thick cloth sack into the barrel. The ramrod went in again, pushing the sack deep, and now Knox said, “Sir, should you wish to select the particular ball?”

“Mr. Knox, you are far more expert in this sort of thing. I would leave that to you.”

“Very well, sir.” Knox leaned forward, ran his hand over the mound of black iron, a dramatic pause. He pointed now. “This one.”

The cannoneer lifted the ball, carried it to the front of the gun, placed it in the muzzle, the ramrod going in again. Now the gun was rolled forward, and Knox made a show of sighting down the barrel.

“We have chosen that house, there, the white roof.”

He took a small fire stick from his gunner, handed it to Washington, said, “We are prepared if you are, sir. I would only suggest you stand . . . in this manner. The gun will recoil somewhat.”

Washington had tried to keep a calm demeanor, allowing Knox to have his game. He had told himself it was good for the men, had not thought the moment would affect him so, his heart pounding, a slight quiver in his hand. He held the stick, followed Knox’s instructions, blew on the glowing tip, a small flame now engulfing the stick. He glanced at Knox, could not help sharing the man’s smile, braced himself for the sound, touched the stick to the fire hole. The cannon erupted in a massive roar, jolted back toward him, Washington jumping as well. The sound deadened his ears, and he stared out past the muzzle of the gun, tried to see, a vast cloud of smoke blinding him. To one side he heard a cheer, an officer, glassing out, the man shouting, “Hee! A hit! Knocked a hole in the house! Busted it all to bits!”

Washington could still not see the target, backed away from the gun, deafened, the crew doing their work again. Knox moved away with him, and the men were cheering him, a crowd of troops lining the trench. But their voices were drowned out by the sound of cannon erupting all down through the trench. He tried to hide the excitement, felt it still in his shaking hands, realized he still held the fire stick, handed it sheepishly to Knox, who said, “There you have it, sir! I’m honored you would consent.”

The smoke began to fill the trench, hot choking sulfur, and Washington moved back farther, found clear air, took a long breath. He looked toward the front, the field out beyond the trench a vast sea of smoke, the guns firing in a steady pounding rhythm.

“The honor is mine, Mr. Knox.”

He moved away, while behind him, a mass of artillery launched their deadly charges, a gathering of power like nothing he had ever experienced. The orders were clear, the guns would maintain their fire as long as they had targets in front of them, as long as the enemy continued to hold to their positions.

He returned to his headquarters, the tents back in the trees, close to Rochambeau. But along the way, something still rose in him, something very young, a boy’s pure excitement. The siege of Yorktown had begun in earnest, and it was a moment he would never forget. He had fired the first shot.

57. CORNWALLIS

O
CTOBER 10, 1781

The French batteries had found the range, and the air above the town was streaked with smoke. The targets were the few ships, anchored close to the Yorktown wharf. The shells were burning as they flew, and when they punched through the hull of the closest warship, the decks exploded in flame. In minutes, the
Charon
, a forty-four-gun frigate, was fully ablaze. Those of her crew who could still save themselves had jumped overboard, some swimming to the shore, others swept under by the cascade of debris that rained upon the water.

He watched from the shore, from the opening in his tent. The sun had set, the fire still high, the
Charon
finally beginning to collapse upon herself. Along the bank of the river, men had gathered, staring silently, as he was, watching His Majesty’s fine strong warship begin its slow disappearance to the waterline. The flames danced on the water, as though the river itself was burning, the hands of hell rising from below. He glanced behind him, up toward the town, could see the flames reflected on the houses, eerie skeletons of grand homes now smashed and broken by the steady barrage of shot and shell.

He could only stare as the flames did their last bit of work. The fire began to die, a large piece of the ship’s bulkhead falling away, a muffled splash that spread a low wave toward the wharf. For a long moment, the flames settled down to a hard red glow, the last bit of the hull just above the surface. Soon the embers gave way to a rush of steam, the hull pierced by her own decay, the final glow extinguished by the water. And just as quickly, the darkness of the river was unbroken.

He glanced up toward the town again, was suddenly aware of the silence, a pause in the artillery barrage. But the moment passed quickly, the air ripped again by the sharp whines, a hard splash close to the wharf, more sounds now, the sky reddened by sharp bursts. He backed into the tent, stumbled to find a chair, sat slowly, thought, So, the rebels enjoyed their spectacle. Their gunners stopped long enough to watch the ship burn. It must have been . . . a bloody delight.

He had moved out of the town itself, away from the large mansion that had been his headquarters. It was too close to his defenses, too obvious a target, had already absorbed a horrific assault, walls punched and broken. He had ordered a tent pitched right on the edge of the river itself, protected by a high embankment. The bank was dug out by the flow of the river, years of erosion carving out caves and pits in the soft earth. It provides shelter for the civilians, who had once thought themselves safe in the town, who could never have foreseen such terrifying destruction. His army had no such luxury, the men out on the main defensive line digging themselves down into whatever shelter they could manage. There was no safe place, no protection, and the rebel gunners, now so well reinforced by their French counterparts, had thrown a relentless and unceasing barrage into every part of the British defenses.

The carnage continued into the night, the darkness no obstacle to the rebels. The British gunners could only respond periodically, the sheer number of rebel shells so overwhelming. And worse, Cornwallis knew, his gunners were running out of ammunition.

O
CTOBER 14, 1781

He heard the musket fire begin, was already moving forward before the aide could reach him. In the darkness there was no fear, and he stood tall, climbed up to the top of the mound of packed dirt. Barely two hundred yards away, he could see the flashes, could hear the shouts, screams, both of his redoubts engulfed by a nearly invisible assault. The pops of the muskets stirred in his chest, and a new sound reached him, metallic, a strange chattering of . . . bayonets. He closed his eyes, lowered his head. They are inside. He looked again, nothing to see but darkness. We were strong, he thought. But if they would come at all, they would come in strength. He saw another burst of fire, a short row of muskets from high on the wall, then a brief quiet moment, broken by the sharp voices of men. He knew the sound, the hard shouts of the victors, the harsh gathering of prisoners.

Beside him, men were staring out still, unaware he was there, some filling the silence with a hopeless cheer for their own.

“Push ’em back, lads!”

“Bayonets! Use the bayonets!”

He stepped down off the dirt wall, unable to see anything in the darkness, stood still for a moment, the cheers around him growing quiet. Out in the redoubts, a new cheer went up, and along the dirt wall close to him, the men began to talk, low voices, the murmur of shock. He refused to hear it, felt his way slowly back, moved into the streets, back to his tent by the river.

On the maps, they were labeled redoubts #9 and #10, two large circular fortifications. They were strong, heavily protected by a wide dry ditch, each filled with cut trees and sharpened sticks. The redoubts were the hard anchor for the left flank of Cornwallis’ defense, were the only barriers preventing the rebels from completing their parallel trench all the way to the river. The assaults on the redoubts had been a masterwork of coordination and surprise, two groups of assailants, one rebel, and one French. No matter the troop strength he had placed in each, a well-trained and well-equipped body of regulars, the enemy had used all its advantages. Now the redoubts would be absorbed into the rebel lines, the last link in the chain that held Cornwallis tightly entrapped.

From the first withdrawal into Yorktown, he had believed it was simply a race against time, that Clinton would soon send the fleet to break the French blockade. They had still been able to communicate, fast packet ships slipping past the cumbersome French line, letters taking the better part of a week to travel each way.

Around his headquarters tent there was little business to be conducted, no formal meetings, nothing of tactics or strategy that would compel his officers to gather. It was too dangerous as well, the unceasing artillery making any group of men a potential disaster should a rebel shell strike too near. He stayed mostly along the water’s edge, took to his tent to receive the regimental commanders. It was the daily routine now, the officers arriving one at a time, bringing him their latest casualty figures from the night before.

He sat in his tent, had made his tally, the horrible losses from another night of bombardment, yet another dismal report for Clinton. He had forced himself to enjoy a cup of tea, a rarity, some civilian producing a gift to ease his fierce mood. The china cup was empty, and he glanced at it, thought, Who would think such things would now be luxury? He was suddenly punched by a hard jolt, a massive explosion, the tent collapsing around him. He hit the ground hard, heavy canvas pressing him down, his legs tangled in the chair. He tried to shout, no words, could hear men moving close, felt a hand on his arm now, saw daylight, the weight lifted off him.

“Good God, sir! You all right?”

The aides were scrambling around him, and he stood slowly, appraised, only dull aches.

“I’m unharmed, it seems.”

He saw the teacup then, broken into pieces, said, “We owe that gentleman a shilling, I’m afraid.”

O’Hara was there, the man’s face torn by pure panic.

“Sir! Are you injured?”

Cornwallis held up his hand, shook his head. He pointed at the heap of canvas, said, “Bring this back up, gentlemen. I have work to do.”

The aides were assisted by soldiers, fast motion, the tent rising. He saw one long rip in the top, a black powdery stain, said to O’Hara, “Bloody damned close. We might have to move into one of those dug-out caves.”

O’Hara was still staring at him with wide-eyed horror.

“Sir! You were nearly killed!”

The tent was secure now and he said, “What would you have me do, General?”

He moved into the tent, O’Hara close behind him.

The aides had pulled his desk upright, the papers stuffed into the small drawers. He pulled out a handful, scanned them, now held one up.

“This is the last letter I have received from General Clinton. He confirms that he is sending a sizable fleet, and a sizable body of infantry, and that they should set sail by October 5. A week ago.”

“Well, yes, sir. If that is the latest . . . I have seen that previously. Then we can expect relief at any moment!”

Cornwallis shifted his chair, sat, the chair rocking on the uneven ground.

“You are a man of optimism, General. That is to be admired. I find I cannot avoid General Clinton’s particular mention:

It is supposed the necessary repairs of the fleet will detain us here to the fifth of October and . . . you must be sensible that unforeseen accidents may lengthen it out a day or two longer; I therefore entreat you to lose no time in letting me know your real situation.

He put the paper down, saw the same glimmer of hope on O’Hara’s face, said, “I have given the commanding general every account of our
real
situation. As I asked you before, General, what would you have me do? According to General Clinton we are to wait for rescue, by a great and powerful fleet that may or may not have sailed October 5. I have received no word of any movement by the French fleet, thus I cannot assume Admiral Graves has made his presence known.”

Outside, another hard blast buffeted the sides of the tent, more shouts, one man screaming. O’Hara seemed to flinch, and Cornwallis held himself tightly down on the chair, expected the tent to collapse again. O’Hara was scanning the canvas above him, and Cornwallis felt something give way inside of him, shouted,
“What would you have me do?”

O’Hara seemed to cower at his volume, looked at him with stunned horror. Cornwallis felt his hands shaking, curled his fingers into hard fists. They sat in silence for a long moment, and he said, “My apologies, General.”

“Not necessary, sir. What possibilities do we face? Surely, sir, you know better than I.”

“We can attack, we can flee, or we can await our deliverance at the hands of Henry Clinton.”

“I must assume, sir, that you would choose to attack.”

O
CTOBER 16, 1781

They slipped out past the British lines shortly after four in the morning, a handpicked assault force of three hundred fifty men. There could be no general advance by the army, the rebel numbers far too superior, so the target would be specific, to open a chink in the rebel armor by eliminating the effectiveness of several key artillery positions. The British soldiers were to move quickly, silently, a rapid surge into the closest French batteries. His men would be less concerned with the troops they confronted than the destruction of the French guns, one squad of men given the task of driving spikes into the fire holes, rendering the cannon useless.

The first wave accomplished its mission and immediately pushed on to the second battery. The guns were spiked again, but now, the response came, a wave of French troops that met the British advance with more force than the British had expected. The fights were brief and sharp, both sides suffering casualties. Before the sun had come up, the mission was over. By midday, the French had repaired their cannon, the big guns again hurling a steady rain of iron and fire into the British lines.

He had stayed in the tent, had long given up hope of sleep. As the brief skirmish had echoed in the darkness, there was no cause to venture out, no need to place himself in any more risk than he was in now. He would wait instead for the message to be sent back from the mission commander. But there was no courier, no dispatch, the word was brought to him by the mission commander himself, Robert Abercrombie, one of Cornwallis’ finest officers. Abercrombie had lost more than a dozen men, only inflicting minimal damage to the cannon and the troops he had encountered. To Abercrombie, it was an embarrassment. To Cornwallis, it was the outcome he had to expect. Despite every instinct that told him to push hard into the enemy in front of him, he had come to accept that his army was simply too outnumbered.

The shelling continued, the town ripped by fire, the list of casualties growing by the hour. He pulled himself up from the small chair, moved out to the opening in the tent, stared across the river. Gloucester Point was a mile away, fortified by the same good work of the engineers who had done their best around Yorktown. But Gloucester had not yet come under the siege guns, seemed for the moment to be in no real danger. He had placed Tarleton in command there, the most logical course, removing the horses from Yorktown. There was no forage in the town, no means to feed the animals, and the horses would be impossible to protect, would be too easily slaughtered by the artillery bombardment. He knew that Tarleton was hemmed in by a strong French force, but with reinforcements from this side of the river, Tarleton might create the one opening the army could use.