Victory at Yorktown: A Novel (43 page)

De Grasse had, within recent days weighed anchor. His promise was fulfilled and he was returning to the Caribbean to resume harrying British possessions there and to guard France’s precious and wealthy gains in those waters. His fastest frigate had already been dispatched to France, which might have arrived even now, bearing word of the glorious victory, the greatest humbling of British arms in this century. Without doubt, the English Parliament that, at best, had always been lukewarm about this war, with some even voicing support of it as a righteous rebellion defending the rights of true Englishmen everywhere, would now rise up en masse and demand a negotiated end. That end would be full independence at last.

The procession had started precisely at noon. Given that it was a fair, crisp autumn day, unlike the boiling heat of little more than two months past when this same army, exhausted yet proud, had marched through these same streets to an uncertain future, they now came forward proudly: Their morale was even higher, because with this great and stunning victory, even Robert Morris was shocked to discover that his combing of the city for every last shilling and doubloon and Dutch thaler to pay these men had not turned up all. His credit was now honored, though he was—something he would never admit publicly—in debt for well over 300 percent of his assets. Suddenly Morris had pressed into his hands enough for two more months of pay in actual coin, at 8 percent interest, due quarterly of course.

So not only would this army bathe in the glory of a true triumph, they would be granted liberty as well for the next two days, and the shrewdest investors knew that barely a piece of eight would leave their fair city and thus enhance their own economic interests as well.

It was truly a triumphant host, as if from the ancient days of the Romans, that marched up Market Street under the noonday sun. First had come patriotic displays borne on wagons, thirteen of them, each symbolically representing their thirteen states of the Union. Each, of course, had fine young ladies aboard, decked out in finest silks, the wagon representing Massachusetts carrying a boat with banners proclaiming all honor to the men of Lexington and the boatmen, who had carried their army across the river to Trenton and rescued it from Long Island. Of course, the display for Pennsylvania drew the loudest applause, requiring a full team of sixteen horses to pull it along. At the fore of the long open wagon a tableau representing the signing of the Declaration; behind them on a raised platform Betsy Ross herself, the stuff of a legend, joyously waving a thirteen-star flag; behind her a fairly good imitator of their beloved elder citizen Benjamin Franklin, currently in France; and all four corners of the wagon posted with sentries decked out in full frontier attire of fringed hunting jackets posing with Pennsylvania long rifles.

Next came some of the captured booty of the campaign, British artillery, wagons stacked to overflowing with Brown Bess muskets, and a proud member of the 1st Continental leading a fine stallion, a sign dangling from either side of the saddle proclaiming that it was, indeed, the horse of Cornwallis. There had been suggestions that, at least, let a dummy representing him be mounted, but Washington had outright refused that indignity.

At last they came, marching twelve abreast, drummers and fifers marching before them, the only overt display Washington would allow of his enemies humiliation. The once-proud flags of their regiments, now unfurled, carried by an equal number of Continental and French troops. Flags that upon many a battlefield had once struck terror into the hearts even of veterans as they saw them, above the battle smoke, relentlessly bearing down upon them. Now the object of derisive cheers and a few of the more drunken and boisterous pelting them with “horse apples,” and shouting imprecations. For those who carried them, the reaction was actually disturbing. They had faced these colors on many a battlefield across six years, and such disrespect now troubled some of them, and they shouted for the crowds to leave off.

Behind the drummers and fifers, flags, booty, and patriotic carts now came the true objects of adoration this day, the army of Yorktown and the generals who led them.

At the fore were Washington and Rochambeau, riding side by side, and the ovation was thunderous, deafening. As George Washington took it all in, yet again there was a flash of memory. The days after Brandywine, his broken army staggering down this same road in defeat, barely a citizen visible, Congress having fled. But today? Young girls and fair ladies by the scores raced forward to throw garlands of autumn flowers and wreaths before them so that the road was carpeted with their offerings.

“My God, my friend,” Rochambeau declared, looking over at his comrade. “This is even better than returning in triumph to Versailles!”

“Your men deserve it this day,” Washington replied, voice thick with emotion. “We will never forget that without you and our gallant friend de Grasse, on this day,” he paused, “on this day, of November 11th, all would be different. May we never forget.”

Yet again, that typical Gallic display took hold and as they paused in the center of town, the Independence Hall up the street and towering above them, Rochambeau leaned from his saddle to take Washington’s hand and clasp it firmly.

Cheer upon cheer redoubled as they dismounted, to again climb the dais and this time, rather than an obviously nervous Congress to greet them, they were swarmed with congratulations and well wishes, joined in turn by their staffs and comrades, Lafayette, von Steuben, young Laurens, who eagerly leaped into the embrace of his father, the president of this Congress, the two weeping with joy, and all the others who had accompanied them across six bitter years of war.

Now the troops of so many proud regiments began to pass in review, and even while others cheered Washington stood silent with hat raised, heart filled with emotion.

The celebration was, indeed, glorious, but there was still much to be done. This triumphal victory had not truly ended the war, as many now claimed or wished to believe. He sensed that never again would there be a campaign or battle, but nevertheless there would be a long final dragging out, the enemy hoping to wear them down through negotiations now that it was obvious they could not defeat them on the battlefield. The enemy hoping that if they dragged out negotiations long enough, the will of America could still be broken to accept some sort of settlement, and not the one he had now fought for, a free America, all of it, from the Atlantic to the Mississippi. The time of soldiers standing in volley line might have passed at last at Yorktown, but months, perhaps bitter years, of negotiation still lay ahead until, at last, Clinton took the last of his regiments and fled back across the sea.

Much was still to be done, to keep this army intact once the joy of this moment had passed, and the dull tedium of winter quarters, spring watch, standing guard on hot summer nights, and chill autumn rains passed, and passed perhaps yet again. Until the last of the British had left and his land was free and he free as well to place his uniform back into a cedar chest, as any true citizen of a free republic would do. Then return at last to the loving embrace of Martha, and to home, where, at this moment he prayed, he could live out his remaining years in peace, having done his service to his country.

*   *   *

Peter stared at the door, from which flecks of paint were peeling, steeled his nerves, and knocked.

There was silence from within. Shutters were drawn in, curtains within pulled down, and his heart sank.

He knocked, and then knocked again more insistently. No reply, no answer from within. Heart sinking he began to turn away and then he heard a bolt being unlatched.

His disappointment of but a second before now replaced with nervousness … anguish.

Elizabeth opened the door.

She gazed at him in obvious disbelief and the sight of her shocked him. Her once-glowing features had paled, cheeks sunken in, eyes dark rimmed, hollow, and he recognized that look from years of winter encampments, the poor pathetic girl was malnourished, starving.

“Peter, is that you?” she whispered in obvious disbelief.

“Yes, Elizabeth, may I come in?”

She opened the door wide and silently beckoned for him to enter.

What greeted him within was a shock. The once-ornate parlor was devoid of any furniture except for a couple of straight-backed chairs. Everything, furniture, ornate wall hangings, even the brass andirons and tools for the fireplace gone.

“What in heaven happened here?” Peter gasped.

“Taken,” she whispered. “I was accused of harboring a known Tory after you left. One of their militia men testified against me at the hearing. My father’s sentiments were already known, of course, and he dare not return from New York to try to defend our property or me. I was declared a traitor, our property forfeited and confiscated to support our cause. It was taken the day after word arrived of our victory at Yorktown. The house has already been sold at auction; at least the buyers took pity on me, and said I could have till the end of the month to vacate and head to New York.”

“This is infamy,” Peter snapped, his mission forgotten for the moment so bitter was this outrage.

“This is war,” she whispered. She began to choke up. “I think I have enough tea,” she whispered, trying to appear brave and nonplussed, “would you care for a cup?”

He followed her into the kitchen, stripped out as well, though there was a fire of a few sticks to ward off the chill, a chair drawn close to the smoldering flames where she had obviously been sitting to stay warm. A single kettle was suspended over the flame, and reaching into a near-empty cabinet, she drew out a small jar, opened it, and sprinkled the precious leaves into the kettle, then turned back to face him trying to force a smile.

“Give it a few minutes to simmer.”

“Elizabeth.”

“Yes, Peter?”

He had rehearsed this moment in his mind a thousand times during the long weeks of their return march. Thinking upon it while riding, trailing behind Washington and his joyous staff, lying awake at night in the open fields whether star-studded or cloud-covered and raining. He had tried to rehearse it a thousand times.

“Regarding Allen.”

She actually smiled.

“Yes, Peter. He was here. I hid him that day you were here and I bless you for it,” she paused, “he was in my bedroom even as you and I spoke in the parlor and you so nobly, God bless you forever, turned and walked out the door. And Peter, I knew that you knew and have blessed you every day for your gallantry and compassion.”

“Elizabeth.”

Her eyes widened and he tried to force the words out but his voice broke into a shuddering sob.

“He’s dead.”

It was all he could say. No gentle building up, no flowery statements, no explanation, just those two words escaping from him.

Her features paled so that he feared she would faint. He reached forward to brace her up, but she slapped his hands away.

“How, how? My God, how?”

“The war.”

“How?”

He struggled for control, lowering his head, tears streaming, dropping to the floor.

“I killed him.”

“What?” and even as she cried out that one word she strode forward and began to strike him again and again.

“How? Why? My God, why?”

He blurted out the description of what happened as if confessing the darkest of sins to a mother torn apart with grief and her blows finally ceased.

“I had to,” he cried, finally daring to look back into her eyes. “I did it because I loved him. We played at being soldiers once, and, oh God, how different our dreams of what war is were then. We played it so many times as boys and thought it to be all glory and painless death.

“If I had not,” and again sobs wracked him, “those bastards outside would have hanged him and after what I saw with John Andre, I would not, I could not give my friend over to that…”

He began to cry again and now rather than blows, her arms were around him, holding him close.

“Bless you, Peter,” she sighed, holding him close pressing his head against her shoulder. “Bless you, Peter.”

“I had to tell you. I could not feel absolved until I told you.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then she drew in her breath.

“Peter, I am with child.”

Still holding her close he put his hand under her chin and raised it. Her eyes were shining with tears, but there was just the flicker of a smile, the smile nearly all women have when they know new life is within them.

“That night, after you left us, Peter. I am with child, Allen’s child.”

He drew her into his embrace.

“I am more than two months along. I know no one else knows,” and she actually shuddered out a soft laugh, but then began to cry again. “Only you know, but you know what they will do. I am already accused of being a Loyalist, and now I will be branded the mother of a bastard child of a Loyalist.”

Then she did, indeed, begin to cry, long wracking sobs, for her lost Allen, her baby who would be branded the bastard of a traitor.

At that moment, somewhere in the depths of his heart he sensed that he knew this all along. That on the night he had turned away from her doorstep, to spare the life of his friend from the rope, to spare his distant cousin from the humiliation of harboring a Tory, he somehow knew why this had happened after all. That Allen sensed the result of that one night together and thus his final appeal, just before Peter drew careful aim and then snuffed out his life to spare him.

He leaned down and kissed her all so gently on the forehead.

“No, Elizabeth.”

She looked up at him confused.

“No, Elizabeth. You carry my child.”

“What?”

“My war is over. I asked my general for leave after six years of service and he granted it to me. I think someone, God bless him, told him the truth of what happened between Allen and me. Washington bade me to sit with him and I told him everything.”

He struggled to control his emotions as he remembered how his general had reacted only the night before when he had been ordered to report. Washington had drawn his chair closer and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder, then asked him to speak plainly about all that had transpired.