The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [340]
THE CLOUDS CONTINUED TO DARKEN THE SKY, AND BY DUSK, THE rains began. Tarleton had sent sixteen boats, and they had begun to load at dark, each filled with as many men as could safely be rowed across. The rain had grown heavier, but the boats had made their first crossing, were beginning to return now, lining up along the wharf to receive the next wave of troops. He stood out on the wharf, defied the rain, but the storm was growing worse, the wind beginning to howl, the few remaining trees along the water’s edge bent and whipped by a sharp gale. The troops were filing into the boats, and he tried to see their progress, but there could be no lights, nothing to guide the enemy’s cannon. The storm brought light of its own, the soft glow of lightning, the slow rumble of thunder. The boats began to push away, but already the water was rough, hard waves splashing high over the wharf, the spray driven by the wind. He heard shouts, men trying to control the boats, a flash of lightning illuminating the chaos along the wharf. A man was close to him, the voice of O’Hara.
“Sir! We must halt the crossing! The boats cannot maneuver! We should wait, allow the storm to pass!”
He nodded, leaned close, put a hand on O’Hara’s arm.
“Order the crossing to cease. Wait for my order to resume.”
Cornwallis turned away, looked for the dull white of the tent. He stepped away from the wharf, felt his feet deep in mud, trudged his way toward the bank. He ducked inside the tent, the ground still muddy beneath him. Water dripped through every part of the tent, and he shivered from the chill of his uniform. He looked out, shielding his eyes, the rain hard and steady, the wind buffeting the tent, driving the rain into his face. He backed away, felt for the chair, the seat a pool of water. He sat, stared down into nothing, every part of him feeling the pure misery of another disaster.
OCTOBER 17, 1781
The rain did not stop until well after midnight. By then there was not enough time for the numerous crossings it would require to ferry the army to safety. As the river once again grew calm, he sent the boats across empty, with one order to Tarleton. Return the men who had made the first crossing. With the dawn approaching, he would need every man in Yorktown.
With the passing of the storm had come a different storm, the rebel artillery again showering the town with fire. The wounded now filled every house, and no home was free from the sudden burst of a shell. He walked through the darkness into the main street, moved carefully, the street gouged by craters, covered with the debris of houses and trees. He knew to wait for the next shell, nearly a rhythm to it now, the sharp streak, the hard burst of fire lighting the street, showing him the obstacles. He turned down a side street, moved toward the front lines, where so many of his men still huddled, sleepless and frightened. He eased his steps forward, water masking the depth of every hole.
The clouds were still clearing, and he could actually see now, a low gray light, and with the first bit of dawn came a new wave of shelling. He heard a whistle high above, the ball bursting in a shower of sparks back close to the river. He moved quicker, could see his way through the debris. He was not sure yet where he was going, had told his aides only that he would see the hospitals, that it was unnecessary for anyone to follow him. It was unwise, of course, that should something happen to him, it might be a while before anyone knew.
His