Victory at Yorktown (36 page)

Rochambeau and his aides made occasional forays into the countryside, one of which was the source of much regret—a night's lodging at the home of a former Virginia militia major named Johnston. Baron Closen, who was with his chief, claimed that he “had never seen a dirtier, more shocking, and more stinking barracks than that of this major, who, himself, was the greatest pig that the earth has produced.…” During the night the baron and his companions couldn't sleep; they bedded down on straw, he said, and had their ears “tickled by rats!” General Rochambeau, who at least had a bed, was “eaten by vermin” and declared the place “the worst lodging he had found in all America.”

As the summer heat increased, Rochambeau and his friends suffered intensely, for the nights seemed even hotter than the days and they were tortured by invasions of gnats. The Americans told him it was dangerous to bathe—they maintained that it loosened the bowel and caused fevers, and the only times to do it were before dawn or after sundown. But he went bathing at all hours and never felt the slightest ill effects. What did bother him was the American habit of leaving their wells and springs uncovered, so that the water was warm or brackish and unpleasant to drink. He solved this problem by following the American custom of drinking grog (rum and water) “which fortifies and invigorates you without stopping perspiration.”

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GENERAL WASHINGTON HAD
hoped to persuade de Grasse to ferry his army to Charleston and join him in besieging the British force there. But the French admiral replied that orders from Versailles, his commitments to the Spaniards, and other projects would not permit him to do so, and off he sailed to the West Indies. As the General wrote to Congress, his hopes of finishing the war in the South and destroying any British foothold there had come to naught, so he was reinforcing Greene with some troops and marching with the remainder of the army to the Hudson River, “where they would be ready, at the ensuing Campaign, to commence such Operations against N. York as may be hereafter concerted.” Meanwhile, he had a most important report to make—a mission to be entrusted to a man who richly deserved the honor of delivering it.

The morning of October 20, 1781, dawned behind a scrim of haze and smoke rising from hundreds of smoldering campfires in and around Yorktown when Tench Tilghman awoke, fighting fatigue and illness. For two nights he had had almost no sleep and he was suffering from a recurrent fever (probably malaria), but as weak as he was, he was determined to carry out the task given him by General Washington, which was to deliver the official news of Cornwallis's surrender to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia in the shortest possible time. This particular assignment was a glowing reward for the man who had been the General's loyal and most devoted aide for seven years of selfless service.

Tilghman was not quite thirty-seven years old, slender, five feet ten inches tall, and weighed about 150 pounds, with a ruddy complexion, gray eyes, and auburn hair tied in a queue. By all accounts he was charming, witty, and graceful, an excellent horseman. (On his black horse he was a conspicuous figure on the march or on a battlefield.) One of six brothers—two of them loyalists like their father—he was reserved, soft-spoken, and very tough. He grew up in a prominent family on the eastern shore of Maryland and at the age of fourteen began attending the College and Academy of Philadelphia, which was founded by Benjamin Franklin. Along with his many other assets, he brought to his present assignment a thorough knowledge of the terrain and water routes from Yorktown to Philadelphia.

As he rode off to the waterfront, Lafayette, the Duc de Lauzun, and several other men came along to wish him Godspeed. It was a dreary scene he was leaving behind: long piles of freshly dug dirt that covered the dead, the ruins of Yorktown, tents and the detritus of camps sprawled out across the fields, and at the water's edge the bloated bodies of slaughtered horses and, beyond, the charred hulks of sunken ships. Tilghman and Lauzun dismounted, handed their reins to an orderly, and stepped into the boats that were waiting for them. The American was heading north to Annapolis, where he would board the packet for Rock Hall. From there he expected to travel the 130 miles to Philadelphia with a relay of horses. The Frenchman was going downstream for a final conference with de Grasse before he boarded the
Surveillante
, bound for France.

Tilghman's boat set sail, picked up a six-knot breeze, and after clearing the mouth of the York River and old Point Comfort was soon out in the open waters of Chesapeake Bay. Day turned to night, and sometime in the darkness Tilghman was awakened with a huge jolt. Although he could see nothing, he recognized the problem immediately: the skipper had tacked too far in order to avoid the shoals off Tangier Island and had run aground on a sandbar. The only option was to wait for high tide, which cost Tilghman hours of frustrated waiting. By the morning of October 21, they were out in deep water again with a fresh wind, and it looked as though they would reach Annapolis in good time. But off Little Choptank River, about thirty miles from their destination, the wind died, and it was the morning of the 22nd before they arrived at Annapolis.

There, in the capital of Maryland, he met with the Committee of Safety, delivered his glorious news, and made arrangements for the continuation of his journey. He learned, to his annoyance, that a letter from de Grasse to Governor Lee had already been forwarded to Congress, conveying the news of Cornwallis's surrender to that body. The packet that ran between Annapolis and Rock Hall, carrying passengers as well as horses, some light freight, and wagons, normally took about two and a half hours, but Tilghman seemed to be jinxed by the weather. The packet, like his boat from Yorktown, was becalmed and took the entire day to reach Rock Hall on the evening of October 22.

Desperate to get moving, Tilghman was off the packet and on a fresh horse as quickly as possible, riding for Chestertown—where his father, two sisters, and a brother were then living—shouting his news to everyone he passed along the way. The
Maryland Journal
carried an account of his arrival in Chestertown and the celebration that followed—a great event attended by “a large number of worthy citizens,” which featured “the roaring of Cannon, and the Exhibition of Bonfires, Illuminations, etc.” before the gentlemen repaired to a suitable hall and drank thirteen toasts—first to General Washington and the allied armies, last to the state of Maryland, with an appropriate list of notables in between, including the French and Spanish kings and the officers who had rallied to the American cause. The next evening an “Elegant Ball was given by the Gentlemen of the Town” so the ladies might participate in “the general joy of their Country,” but Tilghman was not among those present.

He was still sick and exhausted, and after delivering his message spent the night of the 22nd at his father's house. Next morning he was up at daybreak, riding again for Philadelphia. All that day and into the following night he rode hard, stopping only for a fresh horse when he could locate one. Just after 3
A.M
. on October 24 he entered the outskirts of Philadelphia and cantered through the empty streets of the city to the house of his old friend Thomas McKean, president of the Continental Congress. Tilghman pounded on his door so violently that a night watchman appeared and threatened to arrest him for disturbing the peace. Fortunately, McKean arrived in his bedclothes, heard the news, and immediately shared it with the night watchman, an elderly German, who continued his rounds, calling out, “Basht dree o'glock, und Gornwallis isht da-ken!”

Tilghman was right to worry about arriving late with his news. As he wrote to Washington, de Grasse's letter to Governor Lee had been delivered to Congress, but “I knew both Congress and the public would be uneasy at not receiving dispatches from you; I was not wrong in my conjecture, for some really began to doubt the matter.” Regrettably, the fatigue of his journey brought back his fever, and he was in bed almost continuously after arriving in Philadelphia. He met with a committee of Congress that wanted more details on the capitulation—the motives that had led to several of the articles, in particular—and Tilghman was delighted to inform the commander in chief that the committee was “perfectly satisfied with the propriety and expediency of every step which was taken.” In fact, the Congress as a whole concurred—all except the South Carolinians, “whose animosities carry them to that length, that they think no treatment could have been too severe for the garrison, the officers, and Lord Cornwallis in particular.” One member of that delegation had even argued that the British officers should be held until the further order of Congress, but his proposal was unanimously rejected as an affront to Washington and the Congress. In closing, Tilghman informed the General that as soon as he was well enough he would ride to Chestertown and await further orders, adding that he would join him without delay when summoned. In the meantime, he had one more official duty to perform.

The Congress had presented him with “a horse properly caparisoned, and an elegant sword,” testifying to their high opinion of his merit and ability. Presumably, that was the horse he rode to Chester, where he met his fellow aide, David Humphreys, who was bringing to Congress the colors surrendered by the British and German troops. The financier Robert Morris, who was a great friend of Tilghman, described the arrival of the captured colors. The city troop of light horse went out to meet them, he said, and became the standard-bearers—each of twenty-four privates carrying one of the flags, with the American and French colors preceding the trophies down Market Street and eventually to the State House, where “they were laid at the feet of Congress who were sitting.” Several members spoke to Morris later and told him that instead of regarding the transaction as one more in a series of joyous ceremonies, “they instantly felt themselves impressed with ideas of the most solemn and awful nature.”

The whole city went wild with joy. Lighted candles and lamps appeared in every window; people of all ages poured out of houses into the streets, jumping up and down, shouting, hugging their neighbors. In the morning members of Congress met to hear the reading of the dispatches and questioned Tilghman at length about the siege, the articles of capitulation, and what was being done about the prisoners the allies had taken. Cannons on the State House grounds were fired throughout the day, as were guns on ships in the harbor, all of which ran up their colors. At two o'clock that afternoon congressmen proceeded in a body to the Dutch Lutheran church to attend a service held by one of their chaplains, the Reverend Mr. Duffield, and, returning to the State House, passed a resolution of thanks to the army and voted to erect a commemorative monument in Yorktown. (Regrettably, no money was appropriated to build the monument, and years went by before it was erected.)

Tench Tilghman also discovered that the congressional till was empty when he requested reimbursement for his out-of-pocket expenditures. Congressman Elias Boudinot noted ruefully, “It was necessary to furnish him with hard money for his expenses. There was not a sufficiency in the treasury to do it, and the members of Congress, of which I was one, each paid a dollar to accomplish it.”

As it happened, the city of Newport, Rhode Island, heard the news almost as early as Philadelphia did. On the afternoon of October 24 the schooner
Adventure
, with Captain Lovett in command, arrived in the harbor, having left Chesapeake Bay on the 20th with the “GLORIOUS NEWS of the SURRENDER of LORD CORNWALLIS and his ARMY Prisoners of War to the ALLIED ARMY, UNDER THE COMMAND OF OUR ILLUSTRIOUS General, and the French fleet, under the Command of his Excellency, the
Count de Grasse
,” as an excited printer headlined the news, which was then sent on to Providence and Boston. As the joyous tidings spread from one community to another, the celebrations continued across the countryside. In the Highlands, Heath's army devoted an entire week to salutes and banquets. In New Haven, Connecticut, Yale students sang a triumphal hymn, and their president, Dr. Ezra Stiles, wrote a grandiose letter to Washington that began: “We rejoice that the Sovereign of the Universe hath hitherto supported you as the deliverer of your country, the Defender of the Liberty and Rights of Humanity, and the Mæcenas of Science and Literature.” As the
New York Journal
reported, the remarkable capture of an entire British army, four years to the day after the surrender at Saratoga—“an event in which the hand of heaven has been visibly displayed—has been celebrated, in various expressions of thankfulness and joy, by almost every town and society in the thirteen United States.”

11

I NOW TAKE LEAVE OF YOU

In the lazy summer days
of 1780, before Lord Cornwallis's army descended on the little town of York, sixteen-year-old Mildred Smith wrote her friend Betsy Ambler, who was a year younger and had recently moved with her family to Richmond.

“When you left our dear little town,” Mildred said, “I felt as if every ray of comfort had fled.” Oh, the other local girls were charming and very fond of her, but they were all older and their “freedom and levity, almost amounting to indiscretion,” was troubling and made her blush for them.

When a party of visiting French officers arrived on the scene, the older girls' “heads seemed turned” by the flattering attention of the elegant foreigners. Though not one in ten of the latter spoke a word of English, “their style of entertaining and their devotion to the ladies of York are so flattering that almost any girl of sixteen would be enchanted.” It was a good thing that her well-loved Betsy was removed from these “scenes of amusement and dissipation” for
her
giddy, fifteen-year-old brain would have been turned.

On and on went the teenage chatter, to which Betsy responded in kind, telling of a party given for her and her sister when they had reached Williamsburg, consisting of “more Beauty and Elegance than I had ever witnessed before … a most charming entertainment, and so much attention did your giddy friend receive as almost turned her poor distracted brain.”
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