The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [337]
“Bayonets! Use the bayonets!”
He stepped down off the dirt wall, unable to see anything in the darkness, stood still for a moment, the cheers around him growing quiet. Out in the redoubts, a new cheer went up, and along the dirt wall close to him, the men began to talk, low voices, the murmur of shock. He refused to hear it, felt his way slowly back, moved into the streets, back to his tent by the river.
ON THE MAPS, THEY WERE LABELED REDOUBTS #9 AND #10, TWO large circular fortifications. They were strong, heavily protected by a wide dry ditch, each filled with cut trees and sharpened sticks. The redoubts were the hard anchor for the left flank of Cornwallis’ defense, were the only barriers preventing the rebels from completing their parallel trench all the way to the river. The assaults on the redoubts had been a masterwork of coordination and surprise, two groups of assailants, one rebel, and one French. No matter the troop strength he had placed in each, a well-trained and well-equipped body of regulars, the enemy had used all its advantages. Now the redoubts would be absorbed into the rebel lines, the last link in the chain that held Cornwallis tightly entrapped.
From the first withdrawal into Yorktown, he had believed it was simply a race against time, that Clinton would soon send the fleet to break the French blockade. They had still been able to communicate, fast packet ships slipping past the cumbersome French line, letters taking the better part of a week to travel each way.
Around his headquarters tent there was little business to be conducted, no formal meetings, nothing of tactics or strategy that would compel his officers to gather. It was too dangerous as well, the unceasing artillery making any group of men a potential disaster should a rebel shell strike too near. He stayed mostly along the water’s edge, took to his tent to receive the regimental commanders. It was the daily routine now, the officers arriving one at a time, bringing him their latest casualty figures from the night before.
He sat in his tent, had made his tally, the horrible losses from another night of bombardment, yet another dismal report for Clinton. He had forced himself to enjoy a cup of tea, a rarity, some civilian producing a gift to ease his fierce mood. The china cup was empty, and he glanced at it, thought, Who would think such things would now be luxury? He was suddenly punched by a hard jolt, a massive explosion, the tent collapsing around him. He hit the ground hard, heavy canvas pressing him down, his legs tangled in the chair. He tried to shout, no words, could hear men moving close, felt a hand on his arm now, saw daylight, the weight lifted off him.
“Good God, sir! You all right?”
The aides were scrambling around him, and he stood slowly, appraised, only dull aches.
“I’m unharmed, it seems.”
He saw the teacup then, broken into pieces, said, “We owe that gentleman a shilling, I’m afraid.”
O’Hara was there, the man’s face torn by pure panic.
“Sir! Are you injured?”
Cornwallis held up his hand, shook his head. He pointed at the heap of canvas, said, “Bring this back up, gentlemen. I have work to do.”
The aides were assisted by soldiers, fast motion, the tent rising. He saw one long rip in the top, a black powdery stain, said to O’Hara, “Bloody damned close. We might have to move into one of those dug-out caves.”
O’Hara was still staring at him with wide-eyed horror.
“Sir! You were nearly killed!”
The tent was secure now and he said, “What would you have me do, General?”
He moved into the tent, O’Hara close behind him.
The aides had pulled his desk upright, the papers stuffed into the small drawers. He pulled out a handful, scanned them, now held one up.
“This is the last letter I have received from General Clinton. He confirms that he is sending a sizable fleet, and a sizable body of infantry, and that they should set sail by October 5. A week ago.”
“Well, yes, sir. If that is the latest . . . I have seen that previously. Then we can expect relief at any moment!”
Cornwallis shifted his chair, sat,