The Time Pirate (55 page)

O
ctober 19, 1781. It was a glorious autumn day, the leaves of the trees just beginning to turn shades of red and gold. It was small comfort to the remnants of a great expeditionary army known as the Pride of Britain. This day would find them humbled to a greater degree than they had ever suffered before.

Around noon, to the sound of endless rolling drums, the victorious allied armies marched out and lined up, two ranks deep, on both sides of the Hampton Road from the village of Yorktown. The Americans were on the right, the French on the left. These triple ranks of uniformed men stretched for more than a mile from the British garrison.

Waiting at the farthest end from Yorktown were gathered the American and French commanders of the allied forces and their ranking officers, all mounted on horseback.

At the head of the American line was General George Washingon, his horse, Blueskin, snorting and pawing the ground. He was flanked by his second in command, General Benjamin Lincoln to one side, and General Lafayette on the other. On the French side of the line, Generals de Rochambeau
and Barras, splendidly turned out, sat their horses facing the Americans.

This was their finest hour. And they were waiting patiently for this final moment of triumph to commence.

Ordinary country people, from every nook and cranny and bog, sensing history in the making, came from miles around, their numbers swelling beyond count as the day wore on. Even now, the torn and blackened battlefield behind the triple lines of soldiers bulged with wildly cheering citizens.

Boys dangled precariously from every treetop; farmers stood teetering atop fence posts, all hoping for a glimpse of the proud man who had so reviled and disparaged the Continental army over the course of this long and bloody struggle. They'd all come out to see the haughty Lieutenant General Charles Cornwallis, in all his frippery and finery, get his long overdue comeuppance.

It was Nick McIver's great good fortune that his horse was standing directly adjacent to that of his superior officer, the Marquis de Lafayette. Nick felt badly for his fellow aides-de-camp, now standing on tiptoe, but he knew his vaunted position alongside the officers was due only to Lafayette's unspoken acknowledgment of certain secret services he had performed in the course of this battle. Nick inhaled deeply, taking it all in.

The French troops, tall, handsome, and well washed, as was their wont, were splendidly turned out, their pristine white uniforms, various colored lapels, designating their regiments, brilliant in the sun. The colors of France, a pure white banner, fluttered above the heads of each regiment.

Facing them from across the dusty road stood their comrades in arms, the men of the United States Army. They, too,
stood proudly at attention, eyes front. But they wore shabby blue uniforms, ragged and soiled. Many stood barefoot but unashamed. The American militiamen among their ranks wore a motley assortment of soiled and irregular uniforms. Some were clothed in the leather hunting shirts and breeches associated with backwoodsmen along the frontier. These were the men of the mountains, the men with the long barrels, the scourge of Cornwallis.

Many of these brave soldiers had endured six long years of punishing and bloody warfare. Among those standing in these lines under the blazing Virginia sun were survivors of the earliest fights at Concord and Bunker Hill. Nick assumed it was these soldiers who took in this moment with more pain and satisfaction than any other soldier present on this final field.

They had suffered every hardship imaginable. Despite hunger, tedium, and no pay, they had managed to survive the killing winters at Valley Forge and Morristown, many of them without blankets or even shoes. Still, few if any of these brave souls now present had any idea of the magnitude of what they had so gloriously accomplished.

They had not only secured the independence of the American colonies but, eventually, changed the history of the world.

Battle-torn American regimental standards, some in tattered ribbons, waved over the Continental lines, while from across the road the stirring music of the French military band, the only such band in America, helped soldiers pass the time until the British appeared.

At two o'clock, it was possible to hear the distant sounds of British fifes and drums coming from Yorktown. It was a signal
that the defeated army was assembling behind the garrison walls. The waiting allied armies, the men who had finally shattered the all-powerful British force, went suddenly silent.

At three o'clock, legions of the vanquished army finally appeared, the mounted officers riding through a large hole blasted in their now-demolished fortifications. The officers were followed by the conquered troops in a slow and solemn step. They came with shouldered arms and their colors cased, as Washington had insisted. This was his final retaliation for the many times victorious British generals had refused surrendering Americans the “honors of war.”

As the scarlet coats drew nearer, Nick could see the mortification and unfeigned sorrow on the faces of the defeated soldiers. Some cursed, some had tears coursing down their cheeks, and some hid their eyes beneath the great round hats they wore. All the spirit and courage that normally animated the soldiers had slipped from them.

Nick felt a twinge of guilt at the sight of them. But overpowering such feelings was the true belief that he had done what was best for his country. Yes, he had done his duty.

As the group of mounted officers at the forefront of the British Army crested a hill, Nick whispered to Lafayatte, “Which one is Cornwallis?”

“It seems our dear Cornwallis much prefers to lead his army in victory rather than defeat. He pleads illness keeps him confined to his quarters. That redheaded officer riding in the lead is his second in command, General O'Hara. It is he who shall present the sword of surrender to General Washington.”

“Isn't that a grave insult to his own troops, for Cornwallis not to lead them at their surrender?” Nick asked. He didn't know much about the finer points of military courtesy, but he knew right from wrong.

“Unforgivable,” Lafayette said, “but not surprising. Since Cornwallis has always maintained such an exalted opinion of his own military prowess and viewed the Americans as contemptible, undisciplined rabble, he now finds himself humiliated beyond measure. General Washington is disgusted at this behavior, I will tell you.”

“What was his reaction when he learned of this?”

“Washington said a great commander should be above such pettiness and not shrink from the inevitable misfortunes of war. Cornwallis, after all, has often appeared in triumph at the head of his army, and so ought he to participate manfully in their misfortunes as well, no matter how humiliating.”

The two watched as General O'Hara rode over to General Washington, explained that Cornwallis was still unfortunately “indisposed,” and offered the American leader his sword. This ancient symbolic act acknowledged defeat.

Washington looked at it a moment and waved it away, indicating to O'Hara that he should present the sword to General Benjamin Lincoln, Washington's own second in command. A hush fell over the battlefield as Lincoln took the sword, held it aloft for all to see. Lincoln then pointed the defeated General to the cleared field where he and his army were to “ground arms,” or lay down their muskets.

Victory.

Nick could find no words to describe the mighty cry that arose from the victorious soldiers and the vast assembly at the sight of that British sword raised high by the American General. It was the concentrated expression of surprise, joy, pride, and relief that the long and bloody struggle was over. Then the storm burst forth at the highest intensity: a storm of yelling, shouting, stamping the earth, and waving flags,
muskets, and swords in the air. The entire battlefield shook with the reverberations of these celebrations.

Once the British had sullenly and angrily grounded all their arms in the designated field, the defeated army turned and retraced their steps, back to a Yorktown now wholly occupied by American and French soldiers. When the last of them had disappeared over the rolling landscape of the battlefield, Nick was surprised to see General Washington put his spurs to Blueskin and head directly toward Lafayette.

He reined in his great war horse and smiled with sheer delight at Nick and Lafayette.

“My dear comrade,” he said to the Marquis, “the Continental Congress has ordered a special medal be struck in recognition of bravery, gallantry, and great achievement. It is my very great honor and privilege to bestow the very first one struck upon you, my dear friend, Marie-Joseph-Paul-Yves-Roch-Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette.”

Nick smiled at the use of Lafayette's full name, but his eyes were on his new friend. No one deserved this more than the gallant Frenchman who had risked all for a country not his own.

As Washington pinned the shining medal on the Marquis's uniform, the sun caught it and the glint lit up Lafayette's eyes. They were brimming with tears. He reached toward Washington and after a quick embrace, the American general, perhaps the greatest leader of men the world had ever seen, galloped away at full tilt, his great cause now finally secure.

Lafayette watched in silence as his friend and hero rode off to join in the chaos of celebration already forming in front of
Washington's marquee and wherever men gathered on the battlefield. After a few moments he turned to Nick.

“Have you the golden orb on your person, Nicholas?” he asked.

“Always, sir,” Nick said, patting the pouch slung under his left arm.

“Follow me, then, lad!” he cried and galloped away.

Nick put spurs to Chief and tried valiantly to catch up. Within a few minutes, he knew exactly where Lafayette was headed.

The General was waiting for him when he arrived at the clearing atop the hill overlooking the battlefield. It seemed like months since they'd first seen this vista together, and it was much altered from that first time. Thousands had died on this pockmarked and hallowed ground. Only the camp-fires sending their smoke skyward remained unchanged. Something was missing and Nick realized it was the thunder of guns. The mortars were muzzled and the heads of the cannon hung low. The battlefield was as still as death.

“Time for you to go home, I suppose,” Lafayette said. “I suppose so, sir.”

“My heart is so full of things I wish to tell you that I cannot summon a single one. I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart, Nicholas McIver.”

“I am deeply grateful for your trust, sir. And—so much more. So terribly much that I don't know how to—”

“Say no more, Nicholas. But, listen, I want you to have this. It rightly belongs to you, and I would have given my right arm to tell General Washington so. But of course I could not. Without your help and bravery in coming here to America, we should have lost this battle and, with it, this war. It's a pity Washington will never know.”

Lafayette began to unfasten the medal from his breast.