Being George Washington (20 page)

Washington surveyed the thousands of thirsty, exhausted men all around him. If de Grasse doesn’t come through, he thought to himself, then God help us all.

September 5, 1781

Yorktown, Virginia

The booms were muffled by the time they reached General Cornwallis’s ears. Yet, muffled or not, they were unmistakably the sounds of canons echoing over the water.

Cornwallis had been waiting for this moment—hoping it would never come, but knowing in his gut that it would. The French had not gone to New York harbor; they had instead come here, to Yorktown.

It didn’t take a military officer of Cornwallis’s pedigree to know what that meant: Washington and his army would be coming here as well.

September 14, 1781

Yorktown

“Tell me again!” Cornwallis snapped in fear.

“Your Excellency, the royal fleet has left the Chesapeake and has set sail for New York.”

“All of them? Every ship?”

“Yes, Excellency, every single one.”

“Graves has gone and left us nothing?”

The lieutenant only nodded as he processed the impetuous actions of Rear Admiral Thomas Graves, commander of the British fleet that had been sent to the Chesapeake to support them.

“It simply can’t be!” Cornwallis snapped.

“Sir, beg you, but it is.”

“What did the fool do, lose his entire fleet in a single battle?”

“Beg Your Excellency, he didn’t lose them all. Only but one ship was scuttled, the
Terrible
, which was sent to the bottom out beyond the bay. But there was enough damage to the other ships that the admiral felt he must retire to New York for repairs.”

“He’s a fool not to have left us something!” Cornwallis shot back at his lieutenant. “Does he anticipate that Washington is still interested in attacking New York? Why does he think de Grasse sailed to the mouth of the Chesapeake and not to the Hudson River? Does he think General Washington such a fool that he would not have coordinated with de Grasse before they attacked!”

The British general fumed, his rhetorical questions spilling out at a rapid pace. “Even if Graves thinks Washington a fool, does he forget about the bloody French officer that paddles around Washington like a house dog, ready to jump into his lap? Does he think General Rochambeau is a fool as well? If so, then he’s mistaken—Rochambeau has proven himself in battle many times before.”

The lieutenant was smart enough to remain silent. He was a messenger—nothing else. Cornwallis shook his head. He was speaking to himself now. “If Graves has truly left us, then he has left us in great danger, I am sure of it.”

The room was quiet but for the sounds of the night breeze blowing gently against the eaves of the old house. The humidity kept the heat locked inside for hours after the sun had gone down. Cornwallis hated the American summers. And that was not the only thing that he had learned to hate about these colonies.

He pulled a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his magnificent uniform and patted his forehead. Moving to the window, he stared at the campfires that burned outside. The thin glass on the kitchen door distorted the image softly, adding a sense of eeriness to what he saw. Hundreds of fires flickered in the night, one for every twenty soldiers. He knew they were necessary for light and food preparation, but he still hated the idea that they added to the heat. He stood there a long time, looking out at the thousands of soldiers who would sleep well, blissfully unaware that Her Majesty’s fleet had all but abandoned them.

September 28, 1781

Yorktown

The last two weeks had been pure hell.

General Cornwallis waited anxiously for what he knew was coming. He sometimes stared at the horizon for so long that his eyes would play tricks on him. On more than one occasion he had summoned his lieutenant to look through his spyglass and confirm his sighting of Washington’s troops, only to be informed that nothing was there.

But on this day, his eyes did not deceive him. Thousands of troops appeared on the northern horizon. Hundreds more appeared across the York River at Gloucester Point.

The siege of Yorktown was on.

September 28, 1781

Yorktown

General Washington stood on a small embankment on the south side of the city. Seventeen thousand men lay at his disposal. Whether French or Continental, all of them were waiting to charge at his command. His men had been sleeping in the open, grateful for the summer breeze. Some hunted wild hogs while others worked to build bridges across the marshes. An ugly stench drifted from the musky beach and the general glanced in that direction.

In a desperate effort to preserve what precious food they had, the British had slaughtered most of their horses and left their bodies on the beach. There had been a time, years before the war, when such a thing would have made Washington sick. But not now. He had seen enough to have his stomach hardened to such horrors.

The air was thick with gnats and mosquitoes, and he swatted them without thinking. His uniform was clean and tidy—one did not take men into battle without looking worthy to lead—but it was as uncomfortable and impractical as any piece of clothing he had ever owned. Thinking of the coming battle, his heart leapt in his chest. Part anticipation, part anxiety, part the adrenaline of combat that couldn’t be had any other way. He was ready for it now. Ready to attack. Ready to feel the thrill of
an honorable victory while participating in an undertaking that could only have been designed in hell.

He and General Rochambeau had split up the battlefield. Washington’s men had taken the eastern position, from the York River and marshlands that followed Wormley Creek to the south and then east. His artillery was to his left, near the center of the battlefield.

He considered the leaders he had placed in command of the various regiments: General Clinton; Lafayette; Nelson; von Steuben; Knox. All good men. Battle tested. He trusted them like brothers. He looked toward the afternoon sun, across a series of small creeks, pastures, and open fields scattered lightly with trees and brush. The French were on the west. And there, across the York River, was an army made up of both French and American soldiers ready to confront the British at Gloucester Point. Good men and generals there, too.

Washington knew they were ready to lay siege. But they didn’t have to. At least not right away. For reasons that seemed unfathomable to him at the time, the British troops manning the outer fortifications around the city—fortifications that may have taken weeks and many hundreds of lives to capture—had outright abandoned their posts and pulled back into the center of the city.

The French and American soldiers took those positions and, within a week, had rolled their cannons and artillery into a position where they could provide enough cover.

Now, Washington knew, it was time for the digging to start.

That first night proved stormy, the waning moon throwing off very little light—perfect conditions to protect the massive operation that was just about to get under way. Under the cloak of darkness, the commander of the allied forces moved to within six hundred yards of the British line, where he ceremonially stuck the first pick into the ground. In less than a week, two thousand yards of trenches, stretching from directly south of Yorktown to the river, had to be finished. It was dangerous, backbreaking work. Once complete, half of them would be commanded by the Americans, half by the French.

A few nights later, Washington moved forward toward the British line once again. Standing beside a heavy cannon, he fired the first gun.

The world seemed to utterly explode around him as dozens of allied
guns and artillery started blowing deadly metal toward the British defenses. The cannonballs were clearly visible, scorching black knots against the sky. At night they looked like flaming fireballs with white-hot tails.

Washington knew how accurate his gunners were, their skills finely honed by years of experience. They could drop a ball or shell within a few feet of its intended target, where it would whirl and spin before exploding, taking body pieces with it; arms, parts of bowels, sometimes entire heads. It was horrible to experience, dreadful and inhuman, but it was the way that war was fought.

Standing on the embankment to survey the battlefield, Washington looked down his line of heavy artillery and cannons. They had enough siege equipment. Enough ammunition. Enough men. With the French fleet in place, they could cover the river from any attempt by Cornwallis to escape.

His foe was going to fold here. There was not a doubt in his mind.

October 1781

Yorktown

General Rochambeau stared across the tent at the American general. Both of them had moved up to front lines of the battle. It was growing dark now, but the terrifying sound of cannonballs and artillery could still be heard over their heads. Most of the fireballs were going instead of coming, which brought a bit of comfort, but he never quite got used to the horrible sound of metal flying through the air. Farther to the south, in a small pasture full of high grass, the hospital tent was near overflowing. Behind them there was the constant sound of chains, wheels, and hooves from the supply wagons moving men and ammunition toward the trenches that were being dug ever closer to the British walls.

The Frenchman sat upon a small barrel he had turned over for a stool. He was weary to the bone. War was excruciating work. A drop of sweat dripped from his nose and he lifted an arm to wipe his sleeve across his forehead. A gust of humid air blew in from the beach and he caught a whiff of decaying flesh. Without thinking, he turned away. He never got used to it—the smell of death—and he hoped he never would.

General Washington stood with a few of his aides, giving them
instructions. The men were attentive and respectful and Rochambeau couldn’t help but note the look of deference in their eyes.

As he watched the American general work, his heart swelled with a love that could only be compared to the love a son might feel for his father. Why he felt such affection for the American general, he had wondered many times. Part of it was the French blood that ran through him. Far more emotional than the practical Anglo colonialists who surrounded him, he wasn’t so fearful of letting his fondness show. Part of it was the way that war had of sharpening one’s emotions, making the dear things more dear, men becoming brothers upon the battlefield. But most of it, Rochambeau knew, was the simple fact that Washington was so damnably easy to love. He stood above his men, but never over them, as a lord of Europe would. And he had a way of pulling you in, making you not only willing but grateful to stand in his presence. Simply put, he was a great man
and
a good man. And that was very rare, indeed.

Washington’s army loved him beyond words. Because of this, their single greatest fear was that he would allow himself to be killed in battle. That was the only thing that could destroy their nation, the only thing that could destroy their cause. Rochambeau’s fellow French officer, Lafayette, had once said to Washington, “If you were lost … there is nobody who could keep the army and the revolution for six months!”

Everyone knew that was true.

Yet Washington insisted on terrifying his men. He’d been terrifying them for years now. He took little care of himself in battle, insisting on animating his troops by the sheer force of his example. He could always be found in the very midst of battle. Time and time again, despite Rochambeau’s strongest protests, he led the charge. But his life seemed to have been preserved so often that it had become accepted that God was not going to let him die. Whether Washington believed that or not, no one knew. Rochambeau had asked him once, but his friend had only frowned and waived a dismissive hand. But he certainly acted like it. Which caused even greater fear among his men.

Had God preserved his good friend? Rochambeau didn’t know. But if not, Washington was the most fortunate man he’d ever known. Fortunate and reckless. A good combination for building legends—but a difficult one for maintaining friendships.

Rochambeau slid the barrel a few feet and sat across from his friend at a makeshift table that held a variety of hastily drawn maps. He thought back to what others who’d fought with Washington at the Battle of Princeton had told him. It was a story that defied belief, but by the third time he’d heard it, he’d begun to believe it was true.

Washington, the story went, had galloped to within thirty yards of the enemy’s position before ordering his men to fire. Hundreds of troops discharged their muskets as one, sending a deadly rain of metal balls screeching across the battlefield. At the same time, the English also fired, most of them directly at Washington. The blast from so many simultaneous gunshots was utterly deafening—earth and sky seeming to shake from the force of the guns. The smoke was so thick that it was virtually impossible to see. The entire scene was chaos.

As the smoke began to clear and the guns grew quiet, everyone expected to see the American commander lying dead upon the ground. Instead, he sat upright upon his horse, calm and resolute. And certainly composed.

“Thank God!” Colonel Fitzgerald, Washington’s trusted aide, had exclaimed. Then Fitzgerald, a man who was hardened by years of war, a man as rough and demanding as any on the battlefield, burst into tears of relief. Upon seeing this, and with the battle still raging around him, Washington had ridden over to the colonel and taken him by the hand to reassure him. “The day is our own,” was all he said.

As the war had drawn on, Washington’s courage only seemed to grow. Rochambeau thought back to just over a week ago when the battle at Yorktown was just getting under way. As the two armies started exchanging a relentless volley of cannon and artillery fire, no one was surprised to see Washington in the siege trenches with the engineering troops, the enemy forces barely a few hundred yards away.

Rochambeau had stood beside the general as they surveyed the battlefield. He couldn’t believe his friend’s calm—his steady hands holding the spyglass. Rochambeau was not quite as composed, though he did his best to maintain the appearance.