The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [332]
Tilghman said nothing, and Washington jerked the reins, moved back up into the road. He had not often felt this kind of rage, the pure hatred for the British soldiers. This kind of savagery does not come merely by the order of a commander. This was done by a mob, hateful men who have lost their honor. Whether it was Tarleton or Simcoe, or nothing more than a band of stragglers, these men do not have the right to wage such a war. It is time to bring this to an end.
He marched beside the column of continentals, the French following behind. His command now included better than sixteen thousand men fit for duty, with two thousand more in support. It was the largest body of men he had led in any march, the greatest strength ever placed into his hands. As they drew closer to Yorktown, that strength filled him, energized his mind and his heart, his anger focusing on the one simple mission that lay before them.
HE HAD EXPECTED SOME OBSTACLES TO THE ADVANCE, SOME ATTEMPT by Cornwallis to slow the march by harassing the flanks, dragoons perhaps, some quick strike. But the British had stayed entirely inside their own defenses. His column was within two miles of Yorktown, and he could see the great spread of defenses, a hard line dug into the sandy ground, a wide arc that enclosed the town. The landscape in front of the British lines had been wiped clean of trees and underbrush, would surely be covered by a mass of artillery. He had expected this would be a serious fight, a bloody awful confrontation. From all he could see now, Cornwallis was well prepared to give him one.
He arranged the army in a wide line to conform to the British defenses. The French were placed to the left, the Americans on the right. The ground closer to the town was cut by streams, a shallow ravine, swampy land that gave the British natural barriers for their defense. The British flanks seemed to end at the York River, and beyond, their frigates stood ready, guarding the waterfront with rows of heavy cannon that could enfilade any assault. Behind the British works, he could see the town, a few larger homes, smaller buildings, perched close to the river. As he glassed the entire scene, it was strangely peaceful, a light salty breeze drifting through wisps of grass and thin brush, leaves in the trees above him whispering with the soft voice of autumn.
For so long, he had depended on the rapid march, the desperation of the quick escape, an army who consumed so much of its energy fighting just to survive. But now the enemy was right in front of him, outnumbered and outgunned, and all the desperation was finally on the other side. From the first days in command at Boston he had never studied his enemy from such a superior position, had never felt this astounding sense of calm. He tried to imagine the mind of Cornwallis, was certain the man understood the crisis in front of him. The British had only two alternatives, escape by water, up the York River perhaps, moving deeper into Virginia, or a direct assault straight at Washington’s army. Washington knew his own mission was clear. He must prevent either from happening.
He knew they were looking to him, that Rochambeau had made quite clear to his own officers who was in command. In his own line, the principal divisions were commanded by Lafayette, von Steuben, and Ben Lincoln, who had been exchanged for British prisoners captured at Saratoga. The division commanders were served by veteran brigadiers, Wayne and Gist, Dayton and Muhlenberg and Hazen. The militia were commanded by Thomas Nelson, the new governor of Virginia, who had only recently replaced Thomas Jefferson.
The first duty would be the construction of their own entrenchments. As the tools were issued, and the engineers went about their work, Washington began to think of the days ahead. He began to focus less on Cornwallis’ puzzle and more on his own. He had arrived