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. The 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.
A tall man, an American officer, hatless, wig gone, was actually dancing a mad, insane jig, reminding him of the way a trained bear would dance at a circus. He capered about, waving his arms, jumping up and down. Other American officers were now galloping up, leaping from their mounts, and joining in this strange mummery. The only thing missing was some jugglers and a fiddler or two to provide music for their show. For an instant he wondered if some drunken soldiers had decided to entertain his arrival, and then with a shock he recognized the man.
It was his Excellency General George Washington leading the bizarre display.
“My God,” someone whispered, in shocked disbelief, “the poor man, the strain of it all. It has driven him mad. Now what do we do?”
“Quickly,” Rochambeau cried, “get us ashore!” and the crew of the barge waited till the very last second to drop sail, coming in so swiftly that Rochambeau was knocked off his feet as the barge slammed into the dock, anxious staff tumbling about, while trying to prevent their general from falling head over heels into the muddy slime of the river bank in a most undignified manner.
Soldiers of one of his regiments on the dock, recognizing the potential embarrassment of their beloved leader, leaped into the water, chest deep, to brace the barge. Eager hands reached out to all but lift him on to the shaky wharf. Clear through the press, to the giant of a man who was the leader of the Revolution, shouldering his way, still waving his arms, shouting with such animation all Rochambeau could grasp was, “You did it, France did it!”
“Did what? Rochambeau shouted.
“My God, you haven’t heard.”
“What good, sir? What?”
“You did it. God bless France and may our friendship last a thousand years. De Grasse is in Chesapeake Bay! Even now Cornwallis is blockaded and under siege. De Grasse has come!”
Washington, still wild with absolute total abandoned joy after so many anguished years of suffering, turned to look at the men of Rochambeau’s command, who stood gazing at him wide-eyed, not understanding a word tumbling out of him.
He took a deep breath, as if struggling for composure and a return to his normally grave and formal manner, then simply shouted with his thunderous voice, “Vive de Grasse, Vive la France, Vive Louis!”
With the first words all understood the reason for his mad excitement and the cry was picked up with a thunderous cheer so loud that civilians in the village were now pouring out into the streets and toward the commotion.
Then Washington turned back to Rochambeau. For a brief moment, he regained his normal sense of decorum and gravitas, and offered the most formal of gestures, bowing to his comrade.
“Joy to you, sir, to all of us. I bring word that the noble Admiral de Grasse has arrived true to his promise.”
It was the first, and perhaps the only time they had ever witnessed such a display, tears streaming down the face of George Washington. The George Washington who had led the numbed retreat from New York five years ago but refused to admit defeat. He who had led the freezing night march on Trenton more than half convinced he was leading his ragged band to a death like Leonidas’s at Thermopylae but, at least, willing to die fighting, who had endured so much for six years, now, at last, all restraint broke away in this moment of joy.
Before Rochambeau could take all this in, it was Washington who stepped forward, arms extended wide, and swept the French general into a bear hug embrace.
“May this day be remembered between our two nations for a thousand years to come and may the gratitude of my nation be eternal to our friends in France. If we are blessed by God to win this war, it is you who stood by our side, and it must never be forgotten.”
Rochambeau was awed to realize that the general was actually in tears and the sight of such emotion stirred his heart to tears as well, as the two embraced with joy and laughter. Around them, by the hundreds, soldiers of France, soldiers and civilians of America, cheered and embraced with joy. A cry soon was picked up and repeated over and over.
“On to Yorktown!”
Part Three
THE BATTLE OF YORKTOWN
SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 1781
Thirteen
HEADQUARTERS OF GENERAL CORNWALLIS
YORKTOWN
SEPTEMBER 17, 1781
The room absolutely refused to stop swaying back and forth. A cold sweat was beading Allen’s brow, and he feared he might just suffer the ultimate humiliation of vomiting in front of the British commander.
General Cornwallis looked up at him, and there was a bit of an indulgent smile.
“Ah, Colonel van Dorn, are you feeling unwell?”
Several of Cornwallis’s staff chuckled and he wondered if he did, indeed, look that sick.
“Sorry, sir, it is just that I have not yet regained my land legs.”