The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [343]
He sat on the horse, backed by his generals. His army extended out in front of him, spread along the right side of the road that led straight into the British works. On the left, Rochambeau and his commanders sat, their army facing his across the road. The contrast was obvious and astonishing, the French in their perfect white uniforms, the decorative and colorful trim, the officers each adorned with some display of medals or pendants. His men faced them with as much regal bearing as they could muster, most in torn and filthy hunting shirts that had once been white or light brown. Behind the regular troops, the militia had formed, and their dress was rougher still, every man in the clothes he happened to bring from home, most with no shoes.
He could see that the continentals were standing more formally than usual, a show for the Frenchmen who faced them, who might still hold some notion of the barbarism of this uncivilized rabble. But there would be none of that today, the men on each side of the road now gazing quietly at the other, measuring, silent respect, motionless salutes.
The bands had been playing for a long while, the French and Americans alternating, a joyful competition for musical dominance. Washington had smiled at the attempts by his men, but it was clear even to the continental musicians, the French were professionals. Music had come as well from the British, the distant playing of bagpipes, fifers trying to send their tunes down this long road, as though asking to be included in the game. But now the music stopped, quiet orders from the officers. There was a more serious game to be played.
He was consumed by nervousness, could not help staring out beyond the town to the open water. He knew that de Grasse was scanning the horizon, searching for any sign of sails, sharing Washington’s concern that suddenly there would be a new chapter to this fight.
He steadied his hands by holding tightly to the reins, felt the unexpected chill of the cool clear day. He stared down the open road for a long silent moment, and the horse raised its head, a sniff of protest. Washington realized he had drawn the reins up tightly against his chest and straightened his arm now, loosening the tension on the horse. He leaned forward, patted the horse gently on the neck, a silent apology. He straightened again, glanced at Rochambeau, who sat rigidly in his saddle. The Frenchman did not look at him. No, this is not the time for words. It cannot be long now.
Far out in front of him he heard the sound of a single drum, a slow cadence, steady rhythm. Behind him came a sharp breath, someone reacting to the sound, and he smiled, his officers as nervous as he was. He could see the horsemen now, no sign of a flag, one of the conditions Laurens had insisted upon, thought so harsh by the British. But the horsemen were complying, and behind them he could see the column of red, following their commanders out of their works.
He was sweating in the cool air, watched them coming closer, could see the man in the lead, smaller than he had expected, and as the man drew closer, Washington saw his face, a dark ruddy complexion, thought, Can that truly be General Cornwallis?
The officer stopped a few yards in front of him, dismounted, looked toward the French, purposeful, direct, drew his sword,