The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [336]
He watched from the shore, from the opening in his tent. The sun had set, the fire still high, the Charon finally beginning to collapse upon herself. Along the bank of the river, men had gathered, staring silently, as he was, watching His Majesty’s fine strong warship begin its slow disappearance to the waterline. The flames danced on the water, as though the river itself was burning, the hands of hell rising from below. He glanced behind him, up toward the town, could see the flames reflected on the houses, eerie skeletons of grand homes now smashed and broken by the steady barrage of shot and shell.
He could only stare as the flames did their last bit of work. The fire began to die, a large piece of the ship’s bulkhead falling away, a muffled splash that spread a low wave toward the wharf. For a long moment, the flames settled down to a hard red glow, the last bit of the hull just above the surface. Soon the embers gave way to a rush of steam, the hull pierced by her own decay, the final glow extinguished by the water. And just as quickly, the darkness of the river was unbroken.
He glanced up toward the town again, was suddenly aware of the silence, a pause in the artillery barrage. But the moment passed quickly, the air ripped again by the sharp whines, a hard splash close to the wharf, more sounds now, the sky reddened by sharp bursts. He backed into the tent, stumbled to find a chair, sat slowly, thought, So, the rebels enjoyed their spectacle. Their gunners stopped long enough to watch the ship burn. It must have been . . . a bloody delight.
HE HAD MOVED OUT OF THE TOWN ITSELF, AWAY FROM THE LARGE mansion that had been his headquarters. It was too close to his defenses, too obvious a target, had already absorbed a horrific assault, walls punched and broken. He had ordered a tent pitched right on the edge of the river itself, protected by a high embankment. The bank was dug out by the flow of the river, years of erosion carving out caves and pits in the soft earth. It provides shelter for the civilians, who had once thought themselves safe in the town, who could never have foreseen such terrifying destruction. His army had no such luxury, the men out on the main defensive line digging themselves down into whatever shelter they could manage. There was no safe place, no protection, and the rebel gunners, now so well reinforced by their French counterparts, had thrown a relentless and unceasing barrage into every part of the British defenses.
The carnage continued into the night, the darkness no obstacle to the rebels. The British gunners could only respond periodically, the sheer number of rebel shells so overwhelming. And worse, Cornwallis knew, his gunners were running out of ammunition.
OCTOBER 14, 1781
He heard the musket fire begin, was already moving forward before the aide could reach him. In the darkness there was no fear, and he stood tall, climbed up to the top of the mound of packed dirt. Barely two hundred yards away, he could see the flashes, could hear the shouts, screams, both of his redoubts engulfed by a nearly invisible assault. The pops of the muskets stirred in his chest, and a new sound reached him, metallic, a strange chattering of . . . bayonets. He closed his eyes, lowered his head. They are inside. He looked again, nothing to see but darkness. We were strong, he thought. But if they would come at all, they would come in strength. He saw another burst of fire, a short row of muskets from high on the wall, then a brief quiet moment, broken by the sharp voices of men. He knew the sound, the hard shouts of the victors, the harsh gathering of prisoners.
Beside him, men were staring out still, unaware he was there, some filling the silence with a hopeless cheer for their own.
“Push ’em back, lads!”