Tarleton had tried a breakout a few days ago and been soundly repulsed. In one, at most two, days from now their parallels would place into position a battery of guns that would drive out of Yorktown bay the small fleet of light ships still at his disposal. Breakout here on this front would be impossible.
To try for a breakout, yet again, in a night action. If a hole could be cut in their lines on the north shore, at Gloucester, spike his guns, abandon this line, and in what would be a last hope, cut his way out and into the open countryside of Virginia.
It would be at least some sort of force intact, that by living off the land could survive until the Royal navy, bearing Clinton and his men in their hulls, did show up for the rescue, which, of course, Clinton would claim as his own action. To hell with him. At least it was a slim hope in the face of what was now utter humiliation and ruin at the hands of the upstart Washington. He still had one card up his own sleeve in response, and it was time to play it.
Cornwallis rose up, stepped out of his private chamber, the grenadier guards posted to either side of the door coming to rigid attention, and out in the corridor his staff came to their feet.
“Send for Tarleton and,” he paused for a moment trying to remember a name, “that Loyalist Yankee, what’s his name … van Dorn. He apparently knows these kinds of operations, let’s give him something to do other than draw rations, I’m certain he’ll be delighted to lead it.”
Sixteen
HEADQUARTERS OF GENERAL WASHINGTON
NIGHT OF OCTOBER 8, 1781
He looked around at his assembled officers. All were grinning, their delight obviously enhanced as well by the case of brandy sent over with the warmest of compliments by Admiral de Grasse, a note attached, yet again, assuring Washington that the navy of France stood in amazement at all that had been accomplished since their last meeting and would stand by his side even if the entire British fleet now did suddenly appear.
He nodded to General Knox who now stood.
“All is prepared, sir, as per your orders. Ninety guns are in place along the line, including those of our French allies. Proper reserve bunkers have been dug for speedy resupply of every piece along the siege line, with batteries of light field artillery ready to move out and deploy at a moment’s notice if the enemy should attempt a sortie. We have a hundred rounds per siege gun moved forward, and, as you have ordered, steady fire shall be maintained starting just before sunset tomorrow and continue throughout the night. Sighting sticks have been set out so the fire will be accurate enough to strike their works in spite of darkness, and flare rounds for the mortars are in place as well if illumination is needed. We’ll expend just under five thousand rounds of heavy fire throughout the first night.”
“God’s grace, how many rounds did we have at Trenton?” Greene asked.
Knox looked at his old comrade and grinned.
“Just under a hundred rounds total for all guns, sir.”
“Pray continue,” Washington asked before another round of self-congratulations and toasts erupted, even though he was awed by the numbers. The armies had close to a hundred rounds per heavy gun in reserve, nearly fifty thousand rounds, and de Grasse had promised, as well, that extra ammunition would be provided by his fleet if need be. Six years ago such profligate expenditures were beyond his wildest dreams, recalling a day, the day this Revolution had started, when the British had ventured eighteen miles out of Boston to Concord, to try to snatch a few four-pounders, a couple of barrels of powder, fifty round shot, and twenty grapeshot hidden there.
If only they had known what it would ultimately cost them, if only we had all known, he realized, recalling the thousands of unmarked graves after Trenton and the long bitter winters at Valley Forge and Morristown. Boys and youths thought that if it was their fate to die as a soldier they would die gloriously upon some battlefield, a relatively painless death, as he was told Andre had said, “but a momentary pang.” For each who died thus, and few of them painlessly, most of them screaming their last breaths out under a surgeon’s knife, ten would die of smallpox, flux, ague, consumption, or locked within the damnable stinking prison hulks on the East River of New York.
“Sir, as with the turning of the first blade of soil, all of my command begs of you the honor that you will fire the first shot of this final bombardment.”
He nodded, half listening, as Knox told him the time and place, and that an honor guard would be sent for him and Rochambeau to guide them to the proper bastion where all would be prepared for them.
Would Cornwallis so abjectly and tamely submit upon his knees to this fate, he wondered. If it was he, at this very moment he would be planning some final riposte, even if but a desperate lunge.
He interrupted the self-congratulatory celebration as Knox heavily settled back in his chair.
“Gentlemen, I want every regiment along the line to stand to this night. Half to be on guard, bayonets fixed, muskets loaded, while the other half rests. Guard to then be changed every two hours, all men ordered to clean out their musket pans, and wipe their flints clean of moisture from the night dew. Every regiment to double their skirmisher guards forward with clear orders that if they spot a sortie to withdraw silently back into their lines. Every gun along the line to be charged with a double load of grapeshot, artillery men to have hot lintstocks ready and burning. Every hour on the hour the breech charges of all guns to be wiped clean and replaced with fresh powder.”
The room fell silent with his words of caution.
“Let us not grow complacent, my comrades. There is no need to pass this along to the French on our left. They are professionals as we are, and without doubt at this very moment General Rochambeau is passing the same orders. Cornwallis must know what tomorrow will unleash upon him, and if all was reversed, I would order an all-out assault shortly after midnight and attempt a breakout, or least such a disruption of our position and the spiking of the siege guns to set our efforts back a month or more. We know if he succeeds in that, and the Royal navy arrives, all can still be lost. So do not let us grow too fat and complacent, my friends.”
Knox blushed slightly, always sensitive about his three hundred pounds of girth. Washington looked at him reassuringly and smiled.
“A master of artillery needs those few extra pounds in order to single-handedly manhandle his guns about, as you do.”
Henry threw back his head and laughed good-naturedly at his own expense and again there were relaxed chuckles.
“It will keep our men on their toes and besides, let Cornwallis come and he will receive one hell of a welcoming in the middle of the night.”
The room relaxed after the stern tone of Washington’s words.
The bottles of brandy were passed around, their general as usual refraining, along with a young officer at the far end of the table.
“General, sir?”
It was Peter Wellsley. Few in the room actually knew his true role; some recalled him as a youth who had bravely guided them flawlessly against the Hessians at Trenton and again at the second battle of Trenton, and Princeton the day after. Others had vague recollection of him at Monmouth or standing alongside a British officer to witness the execution of Major Andre.
The way Washington nodded for him to go ahead and speak, displaying utmost respect, was clear enough indication for the celebratory gathering to fall silent.
“I have some concern about the Gloucester front, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
“It is the back door as we all know, on the far side of the river and where their leader of dragoons, Tarleton, is in command. It might be a back door, sir. I know they tried a few days ago and our men guarding that approach gallantly repulsed them, but I must caution that if I were Cornwallis I just might try there again for a breakout.”
“Go on, sir, I am listening.”
Peter nervously cleared his throat.
“We have advanced our lines along this main front and it is obvious to all on both fronts where the main blow shall now fall. Therefore, sir, I suggest that Cornwallis, or at least this beast Tarleton, as he is called, might have orders to attempt to open a breakthrough. Or even without orders and upon his own.”
“Exactly what that bastard might try,” Morgan snapped. “Excuse my language, sir, but the lad is right. It’d be like him to try to bolt and run, and maybe cut a hole wide enough for the rest of them scoundrels to follow. He knows every man who fought in the South has sworn an oath to put a bullet in him.”
“If they can open a line of escape,” Peter continued, “before we can shift our main forces across the river, if they abandon all heavy equipment and just take what each man can carry, thousands could escape, bring low our efforts here, and ravage the countryside in a bloody and senseless slaughter.”
Washington realized the young man could be right.
“What leads you to this conclusion?”
“Five long years of war in my home state of New Jersey,” Peter replied calmly, and no one offered a sarcasm or rebuff after their celebration of but moments before. He had presented them with a scenario that just might be true, and could lead to the deaths of thousands, perhaps even a denial of ultimate victory and a vicious degeneration of their war that could then drag on for additional years.
“Your suggestion.”
“Shifting of at least the militia in reserve to that front. They might not be able to stand against a well-coordinated assault by heavy infantry, but I doubt it would be coordinated. Once free of a trap they most likely would break apart. In that department, sir, as I witnessed repeatedly, militia can, indeed, be most efficient, and remorseless, and most certainly deadly.
“They would then buy the time for our main line troops of the Continental line to shift across the river, contain the breakthrough, and drive it back into the river.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“I wholeheartedly concur, sir,” Morgan finally said, breaking the troubled silence.
Washington extended his hand as if almost in salute to Peter.
“I concur as well, Colonel Wellsley, and humbly thank you for this caution. It is wisely suggested. I hereby authorize you to pass the order, which I shall draw up immediately, to our militia units to transfer to the north bank of the river to reinforce our position behind the lines, forming a cordon to block or at least slow any attempted breakout. You are brevetted to command of those forces until the ending of this siege.”
Peter stood up, bowing low, saying nothing in reply.
“Alexander,” Washington said, pushing aside the plates and bottle of brandy set before him, “help me to draw those orders up immediately.”
* * *
Allen crossed over the entrenchments the hour before dawn, picked Hessian skirmishers and light infantry, all of them volunteers, moving in open line through the predawn day. The Hessian riflemen insisted upon wearing their uniforms. They knew the odds, this was not their war after all, and if captured or dropped wounded, they wanted the rights of any infantryman of the line, to fair capture and fair and honorable treatment. Tarleton, to his disgust, had, at the last moment, just simply said he would lead the main breakout rather than accompany Allen. They knew the gambit was far more desperate. After two bitter years in the Carolinas, and for some nasty atrocities all the way back to Paoli, their chances of surviving capture were problematic at best, if even one Rebel on the other side remembered and now sought vengeance. As the siege line had drawn closer, within taunting range, threats had been shouted across that honorable surrender would be offered to any man of the main infantry line, but if any of the bastards involved in the murder of the pregnant mother and child were found, orders or not, their suffering, after being handed over to some of the Indians with their army, would drag out for days. They were so terrified, most of them lads swept up from the gutters of English, Scottish, and Irish cities and pressed into service, free of any guilt, except for the few, that the risk Allen offered them seemed the only alternative left.
The plan discussed with Cornwallis was straightforward enough. To don the uniforms of Virginia militia or civilian clothes, breakthrough a weak spot he had observed in their lines, and head for open country beyond. According to the plan to which Tarleton had simply nodded agreement, and that van Dorn realized now, that that officer, expecting his rank to preserve his own hide, would only make the vaguest of motions to follow up on, Allen would break through, secure good ground behind the enemy lines, and signal back that he had secured a breakthrough point. Tarleton was then to attack with all his forces while Allen struck back into the rear of the enemy to sow confusion and alarm. Once a breach had been secured, the rest of the army would cross the river and proceed up and away from Yorktown.
It was a mad hope for somehow that was all but “fey” as the Irish in the ranks called it when first he briefed them, but at least it was something. He reassured them that he had done such operations in New Jersey a dozen times before, and just walked away scot-free.
Even as Jamie begged to come, he had ordered the lad to stay behind, and was now horrified to find him loyally following as they crept through the predawn darkness. It was too late to hiss and order him to fall back and follow orders.
A Hessian in front of him did the hard deed he himself always shied away from. Surprising the forward sentry, who was actually asleep, the Hessian slipped into his position, knife drawn, and cut the old man’s throat, hand over his victim’s mouth. Then, almost gently, laid the body down, and to Allen’s surprise actually muttered a prayer and made the sign of the cross before pushing forward and up over the main entrenchment line.
As he had learned at Paoli, he ordered the seventy-five men with him to advance with loaded muskets but pans empty, and to do their task with bayonet and knife only. They gained the revetment and stormed over it, but some of the Continentals holding this line, not caught completely off guard, opened fire. There was a vicious minute of close infighting before they had cleared the trench for a span of a hundred yards.