Being George Washington (19 page)

The colonel smiled and offered the slightest bow. Like most British officers, he was a landowner back in England, a man of means and influence, and he was tired of this bloody war. What he wanted was to go home.

Lord Cornwallis ignored the bow as he moved toward the nearest wall. From where he stood, he could look south and west over most of the fortifications that would protect them.

“What do you think, colonel? Where will he strike?” he asked.

The colonel was slow to answer. He hated the uppity colonialists, there was no doubt about that, but he had also learned to respect them, even if it was the kind of respect that a master might offer to a good dog. They were not his equals—and they would never be—but they certainly had put up a devil of a fight! So, he had learned not to underestimate them. And he wouldn’t underestimate them now, especially with General Washington standing at their head.

“I suppose, Your Excellency,” he finally answered, “that it will be New York. Washington has shown no inclination to come against us here, sir. New York would be the logical target, it would seem.”

“Which makes me wonder,” Cornwallis replied, “if we are perhaps missing the mark?”

The colonel nodded slowly. It wouldn’t be the first time, that was for sure.

Cornwallis leaned against the bulwark and pointed toward the river. “Do you know what I love, colonel?”

The colonel knew at least half a dozen answers to that question, none of which he was going to mention. “Sir?” was all he answered.

“I love the British navy! I
love
our royal fleet. It provides us with security that you might not appreciate. Consider what I tell you, colonel! We stand here, behind these magnificent defenses, yet we still might find ourselves in a roost. And, if that were to be the case, what would we do? Why, we’d call upon our fleet.

“In three days, they’d be here to repatriate us to the main body of our army. We’d simply sail away on the backs of the British fleet.”

He stopped and wet his lips. Sweeping his arms across his defenses, he smiled for the first time since arriving in Virginia. “No, colonel, this one thing I know as sure as the sun rises over that ocean each morning: if General Washington is going to defeat us, it is not going to happen here.”

August 14, 1781

White Plains, New York

Two of the most powerful men in the Western Hemisphere stood atop a small hill, looking south. The sun was just coming up, promising another hot and humid summer day. The American general stared through his looking glass, taking a quick appraisal of the scout party that was returning from another probing mission against the British fortifications in New York. He and his army had been in New Jersey for weeks before they headed north, probing and prodding at the British forces in the city, searching for a weakness, trying to determine the best use of his soldiers, the best advantage that could be gained for spilling the blood of his men.

It was a burden none could understand except those who had commanded men in battle. Every decision that he made determined the life or death of an unknown number of souls. Make a mistake—and he had made plenty of them—and some men died who otherwise might have lived. Do nothing and the war would drag on, costing yet more lives and treasure. The best outcome of the three bad options was to command with elegance, to make the right decision at the right time and prosecute the war with surgical precision and grace. Yes, men still would die, but at least they would give their lives in pursuit of victory.

It was a responsibility that General Washington took very seriously. It had caused him to be excessively cautious on more than one occasion. But he was getting better, more determined, more willing to take calculated risks. And he had proven an uncanny ability to bounce back from his mistakes: the stunning evacuation across the East River in New York; the glorious victory at Trenton; the war in the South. He had learned,
and while no one would ever mistake him for the great generals in history, he knew now when to pounce and when to run.

And something was saying in his gut that he should wait a little longer. Let things develop. Let things turn. With less experience he might have made a snap decision but now he knew that timing was everything. He wasn’t ready to pounce,
or
to run. Not yet.

Yet he also knew that they were approaching a critical juncture in the war. Where he and his army attacked next could decide everything—and they would have only one chance to get it right. He needed—no,
all
of them: his staff, the men in his army, the leaders who sat in Congress, the families and patriots who supported their mighty cause—desperately needed hope. He had to show them all that the war was not only going to soon end, but that when it did, they might actually find themselves on the winning side.

The French general Rochambeau stood beside Washington and watched the approaching reconnaissance party. The sounds of the military camp were just starting to build behind them. With more than forty years of combat experience, and with thousands of French soldiers under his command, General Rochambeau was the epitome of a European officer and gentleman, always deferential to his American counterpart. “I have come to serve,” he often reminded the man whom he occasionally referred to as his adoptive father, “not to command.”

Rochambeau was quite fond of Washington—but the two of them had been disagreeing for weeks now. The Frenchman turned toward his friend. “You know, of course, Your Excellency, that the scouts will have found nothing new in their probes of the British defenses.” He struggled a bit with the words, having spoken not a word of English when he had first arrived to help the colonies a little more than a year before.

Washington stared through his spyglass, but did not respond.

Rochambeau leaned in closer. “It is time, sir, for you to decide what we should do.”

Washington put the spyglass aside. “I will wait for the report from the reconnaissance party.”

Rochambeau suppressed a smile. He knew that once Washington
heard what he was about to tell him, the report of the scouts about the buttress being built around New York City would suddenly seem
much
less important.

“Your Excellency,” he said, “I’ve been trying to convince you for weeks now that New York should not be our next target. We should be marching our armies south tow—”

Washington did not let him finish. “We outnumber the British three to one here! If we strike at their headquarters while we are strong …”

“Yes, sir, I understand. We have heard your wise reasoning before. Yet all of your senior generals have tried to convince you that we should march south and move on toward Yorktown. General Cornwallis is huddled there, licking his wounds from his defeat in the South. We have him trapped. If we move quickly—and yes, Excellency,
time is running out
—but if we move our forces quickly we can—”

“We can what, General? What exactly will we do there? We put siege upon the town? We put the lives of our men and the reputation of our army on the line there?”

Washington paused and gathered himself before continuing. “No, I can tell you exactly what will happen there, General. We siege the city at the cost of hundreds of my men. Cornwallis waits us out. In the best case, we defeat his defenses and surround him there.

“And then what? Clinton has ordered him to maintain the deepwater port. Being there upon his order, Clinton will do whatever it takes to protect General Cornwallis and his army. The British navy will ensure that Cornwallis receives a constant string of supplies. Fresh men and reinforcements. Food. Artillery. Ammunition. Perhaps even ale to celebrate their victory!

“Even if we keep up the siege and move forward, even if things become intolerable for the British, our adversary simply calls for his navy to rescue him out of the jaws of defeat. That is precisely what will happen, General Rochambeau. We do not have him if he has a navy and a means of escape. And
if we can’t defeat him
, then why do we make the march in the first place? We only end up chasing ghosts.

“It pains me to say it, but it is better to stay here, rest our army, gather our forces, and fight them while we are able to negotiate the terms of the
engagement. Better to fight them here, where we might actually defeat them, rather than box them up at Yorktown only to watch them sail down the Chesapeake to fight another day!”

The two men fell into silence. Behind them, a bugle and drum roll sounded the reveille.

Washington looked away. “I know what you think,” he said quietly. “All of my staff agrees with you. But I cannot do it. Against all the winds that push me, I must do what I must do. And as long as the British have their navy, I know what little at Yorktown we can do.”

Rochambeau let the moment simmer. Then he smiled. “Tell me, General Washington,” he said expectantly, “what if we had a navy that could stop them from fleeing?”

Washington turned to look at him. His face remained passive. He was afraid to gather any hope.

Rochambeau lifted a piece of dirty paper from his satchel. The wax seal of the French navy commander, Comte de Grasse, was clearly visible.

Washington’s eyes grew wide.

The French officer smiled again. “Comte de Grasse has set sail from the West Indies. He will bring the French fleet with him. Twenty-nine warships. Three thousand men.

“He is sailing for the Chesapeake, where he will put himself at our disposal. But we only have him for a few weeks so we must strike now, General Washington! We must move our troops and strike at Cornwallis while we have him up against what is now an inescapable wall!”

Washington took the paper in his trembling hands and stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. Then he looked toward the heavens and smiled.

“Today, General Rochambeau,” he said, turning to survey the vast military camp, now humming with life, “we prepare to leave for Yorktown.”

August 1781

Yorktown, Virginia

The messenger rode his horse hard, driving her with his stirrups digging until she was bleeding from her flanks. He would suffer a reprimand for wasting her, but he had to deliver this stunning news as fast as possible.

The officer rode until he hit the last gate, then left his horse and ran inside an enormous house set in a clearing in the center of the town.

His lord was just sitting down to dinner. Wild turkey. Wild rabbit. Good potatoes. Better wine. He looked up at the captain.

“Your Excellency!” the breathless man cried.

The general could see from the intense look in the runner’s eye that it was urgent. He beckoned him over. “What have you, lad?” he said.

The captain was embarrassingly young, maybe eighteen, with a light beard and a father who had the money to buy an officer’s rank for his oldest son. “Sir …” He stopped and corrected himself: “Your Excellency, word has come from our sentries in Cap-Français, Haiti. Admiral de Grasse is preparing to depart with his entire fleet!”

Later that night Cornwallis and his closest advisors pondered the implications of the news. Was the French fleet heading to New York? They had no way to know for sure—but all signs pointed to yes. General Washington, after all, had been plotting against the city for weeks now.

After just a few minutes of debate, General Cornwallis had made up his mind: early the next morning he’d send another runner north. He had to warn the commander that the French fleet might very well be on its way to New York harbor.

August 14, 1781

White Plains, New York

General Washington was concerned. Yorktown was the right choice, he was sure of it—but that was only half the battle. Keeping that choice a secret was the other half.

Washington gathered his closest advisors inside his large white linen tent and explained what he’d learned. The soldiers listened in stunned
silence as the significant repercussions of the news slowly became clear. “As you all know,” he said, his voice notching down a level, forcing the soldiers to lean in close, “many of our plans have been severely foiled in the past. Being determined not to allow that to happen again, this is what we will do.

“First, not a word outside this council as to our intentions.” He stopped and eyed each man directly. “Need I say that once again, sirs? Not a word to any of your soldiers! When we start to march, I want all of them to think we are marching on New York. Some men talk. Other men listen. They must not know where we are going, even as we are marching there.”

The war council nodded their heads as one.

“We will then begin to release selected bits of information,” he continued, “all designed to misdirect or confuse. We will talk to known British spies and ask them about the terrain on Long Island. We will send fake messages with intricate plans describing our intention to march though New Jersey, then fall upon New York from the rear.” He stopped and a wry smile again began to take shape. “We will then prepare a siege camp on Staten Island. We will send men to start working to improve the roads throughout the island, all in preparation for an army that will never come.”

Washington looked at his French commander. “Sir, if you will, assign French troops to start building oversized ovens, capable of baking bread for thousands of soldiers. All of this will, of course, be easily observed by Tory spies.”

The men nodded their approval. It was a brilliant plan.

General Washington read the look of approval on their faces. “Having been betrayed by loose tongues in the past,” he concluded, “perhaps we can use loose tongues to help us now.”

The long dirt road was filled with troops, the brightly colored uniforms of 4,000 French soldiers standing in stark contrast to the dirty, ragged uniforms of the 3,000 Americans. The march to Virginia promised to be long and hot and, by the time they arrived, their ranks would swell to more than 17,000 soldiers ready to take on Cornwallis’s 8,000 men.

As he made his way south, a growing fear gnawed at General
Washington. How many times had he relied upon the word of allies, only to be disappointed? How many times had he been forced to rely upon the grace of others, only to be left devastated when they didn’t come through? What if it happened again? What if de Grasse didn’t come? It wasn’t an idle thought; the admiral was, in fact, already late. He should have been at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay by now, yet there was still no word from him.