The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [335]
OCTOBER 9, 1781
The invitation had come from Knox, the rotund man’s cannons nearly all in position. Washington never gave thought to this sort of ceremony, but Knox had insisted. He stood now with the gun crew, the men still tending to their gun, one man wiping the barrel with a dirty cloth. Knox said, “Prepare to fire!”
The gun was rolled back, the barrel swabbed by a man with a ramrod, another man stepping forward, stuffing a thick cloth sack into the barrel. The ramrod went in again, pushing the sack deep, and now Knox said, “Sir, should you wish to select the particular ball?”
“Mr. Knox, you are far more expert in this sort of thing. I would leave that to you.”
“Very well, sir.” Knox leaned forward, ran his hand over the mound of black iron, a dramatic pause. He pointed now. “This one.”
The cannoneer lifted the ball, carried it to the front of the gun, placed it in the muzzle, the ramrod going in again. Now the gun was rolled forward, and Knox made a show of sighting down the barrel.
“We have chosen that house, there, the white roof.”
He took a small fire stick from his gunner, handed it to Washington, said, “We are prepared if you are, sir. I would only suggest you stand . . . in this manner. The gun will recoil somewhat.”
Washington had tried to keep a calm demeanor, allowing Knox to have his game. He had told himself it was good for the men, had not thought the moment would affect him so, his heart pounding, a slight quiver in his hand. He held the stick, followed Knox’s instructions, blew on the glowing tip, a small flame now engulfing the stick. He glanced at Knox, could not help sharing the man’s smile, braced himself for the sound, touched the stick to the fire hole. The cannon erupted in a massive roar, jolted back toward him, Washington jumping as well. The sound deadened his ears, and he stared out past the muzzle of the gun, tried to see, a vast cloud of smoke blinding him. To one side he heard a cheer, an officer, glassing out, the man shouting, “Hee! A hit! Knocked a hole in the house! Busted it all to bits!”
Washington could still not see the target, backed away from the gun, deafened, the crew doing their work again. Knox moved away with him, and the men were cheering him, a crowd of troops lining the trench. But their voices were drowned out by the sound of cannon erupting all down through the trench. He tried to hide the excitement, felt it still in his shaking hands, realized he still held the fire stick, handed it sheepishly to Knox, who said, “There you have it, sir! I’m honored you would consent.”
The smoke began to fill the trench, hot choking sulfur, and Washington moved back farther, found clear air, took a long breath. He looked toward the front, the field out beyond the trench a vast sea of smoke, the guns firing in a steady pounding rhythm.
“The honor is mine, Mr. Knox.”
He moved away, while behind him, a mass of artillery launched their deadly charges, a gathering of power like nothing he had ever experienced. The orders were clear, the guns would maintain their fire as long as they had targets in front of them, as long as the enemy continued to hold to their positions.
He returned to his headquarters, the tents back in the trees, close to Rochambeau. But along the way, something still rose in him, something very young, a boy’s pure excitement. The siege of Yorktown had begun in earnest, and it was a moment he would never forget. He had fired the first shot.
57. CORNWALLIS
OCTOBER 10, 1781
THE FRENCH BATTERIES HAD FOUND THE RANGE, AND THE AIR ABOVE the town was streaked with smoke. The targets were the few ships, anchored close to the Yorktown wharf. The shells were burning as they flew, and when they punched through the hull of