Near Danbury, Connecticut

Late July 1781

CHAPTER XXXI

* * *

In the purple of dusk, Washington reined his gray gelding in front of his headquarters building, a tired man riding a tired horse. In silence he dismounted, placed his hands on his hips, and leaned back to relieve muscles too long in one position. Around him his armed guard and two aides dismounted—grim, quiet, road-weary, sweated out in the July heat. From dawn to dark, with French General Rochambeau and two of his French officers beside him, they had been four days riding methodically from hilltop to hilltop with telescopes in hand to sit their horses while they studied the detail of the British positions and fortifications in and around New York. Keeping five thousand troops between them and General Clinton’s army, and one hundred fifty selected cavalry clustered about for protection, they had slowly reached the inevitable conclusion. The British were too many, too well-fortified, too well-supplied, to be taken by the American forces. The great dream of General Washington to redeem his losses at Long Island, White Plains, and Fort Washington on Manhattan Island was to be denied him.

On the fourth day, as they returned to the Continental Army headquarters near Morristown, General Rochambeau with his staff and an armed guard had respectfully taken his leave of Washington to return to his French command at Rhode Island, to wait as he had for nearly a year, watching for the opportunity to strike the blow that would cripple the British. None knew when, or where, it was to be, only that it would be foolish to waste their men and ammunition in an attack on the British at New York.

While his staff went their separate ways to their quarters, Washington entered his headquarters building with his aide, Major Tench Tilghman. In his office, he hung his tricorn on its peg, lighted a lamp, and took his place behind his desk. Before him was unopened correspondence stacked six inches deep that required his personal attention—the price a commanding officer pays when duty draws him from his office. Tilghman stood in the doorway, waiting for instructions.

Washington raised exhausted eyes. “Take a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’re stalemated. We do not have sufficient forces to defeat General Clinton here in New York, and he does not have enough to break out and defeat us. We’re also bankrupt. Either we find a way to win soon—very soon—or we will lose by default.”

Tilghman nodded silent agreement.

Washington drew and slowly released a great breath. “I had hoped that the French would be the key to our victory.” He tossed one hand into the air in a hopeless gesture and let it fall. “Admiral d’Estaing was here for a year, did nothing, and returned to France. General Rochambeau has been here for a year, but has also done nothing.”

He shook his head slowly. “Congress sent John Laurens to France to get money. He was ignored until he literally walked into King Louis’s chambers and demanded it. He could have been thrown into prison for his brazenness. King Louis did arrange a guaranteed loan from Holland, but only about one tenth of what was needed.”

Tilghman sighed. “I heard about it. General Rochambeau has requested more money from Admiral de Grasse.”

“I know, but it has not been forthcoming. De Grasse is somewhere down in the West Indies, engaged with the British for possession of the islands down there. He could have been a critical force if he had brought his fleet here.”

“I believe his orders are otherwise.”

“That is true, but our forces combined with the French could possibly end this entire matter quickly.”

He stopped, and for a time neither man spoke as each worked with his own thoughts. Washington broke the silence.

“I’m considering moving some of our forces south to join General Lafayette in Virginia, or General Greene in South Carolina. Time is against us. We can’t wait. We must do something.”

“Is there a firm plan in mind?”

Washington slowly shook his head. He leaned forward, long forearms on the desk, palms flat. “No. Maybe we can make a feint toward General Cornwallis that will prompt General Clinton to send part of his command south to help him. That might give us an opening here to attack New York. Or maybe we can go on down to South Carolina and somehow help General Greene.”

He leaned back in his chair and for a few moments rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Does the General desire some refreshment? Hot chocolate? Coffee?”

Washington shook his head. “I’ll have to sort through these messages, and then I’m going to my quarters. You should go to yours. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was close to eleven o’clock when Washington turned out the lamp and went to his sleeping quarters. Slowly he removed his tunic and thoughtfully laid it on the chair beside his bed, then walked to the window to draw back the drape. For a time he peered out into the black-vaulted heavens, studying the endless stars, great and small. Thoughts came and he let them run unchecked.

Endless—without number—not by accident—there is order—the Almighty presides—right is stronger than wrong—right will prevail—finally it will prevail—must find a way—must see it through.

In full darkness he hung his uniform on the chair and went to his bed to sleep the sleep of a bone-weary man who had carried a revolution on his shoulders for six years.

He was washed and dressed when the camp drums hammered out the five a.m. reveille call, and by six o’clock had drafted responses to the messages on his desk. At fifteen minutes past six an aide brought his simple breakfast of hot chocolate, bread, eggs, and fried strips of bacon.

At seven o’clock Major Tilghman rapped on his door.

“Sir, is there any way I can be of assistance? Any messages I might help with?”

“No. Carry on with your usual duties.”

At half-past nine a firm rap on his door brought Washington up short. “Enter.”

The door swung open and Tilghman took one step into the room with a document in his hand. Instantly Washington sensed the tension in the slender man, and leaned back, waiting.

“Sir, this was just delivered by messenger.” He stepped to the front of the desk and held it out, eyes never leaving Washington’s.

Washington took the sealed document and for a moment studied the gold wax seal, then the beautifully scrolled writing of his name on the front. He was aware of the beginnings of an excitement deep in his chest. He broke the seal, unfolded the document, laid it on his desk, and read the signature.

Admiral François Joseph Paul Comte de Grasse.

Washington scarcely breathed as he read the document. He raised wide eyes to Tilghman, then with trembling hands read it once again. He straightened in his chair, and Tilghman recoiled. Never had he seen the wild, ecstatic expression that he now saw on Washington’s face.

“He’s coming!” Washington exclaimed. He stood. “He’s coming from the West Indies!” He began to pace, pointing at the letter, moving, gesturing. “He sails from Santo Domingo on August thirteenth for the Chesapeake.”

The air in the small office was electrified! Tilghman bolted to his feet, momentarily unable to speak.

Washington could not contain himself. “He’s bringing twenty-five to twenty-nine ships of the line! Warships! Three regiments of French regulars—the best they have—three thousand of them!”

Tilghman stood stockstill, gaping.

Washington went on. “One hundred dragoons, one hundred artillerists, ten field pieces, and siege cannons and mortars! Siege cannon, mind you! Siege cannon!” He repeated it as though trying to grasp the reality in his mind.

“For how long?” Tilghman exclaimed.

Washington strode back to his desk and thumped a long index finger onto the letter. “Until October fifteenth! Close to six weeks!”

Tilghman fell silent while his mind leaped, making calculations. “The troops—are they General Rochambeau’s men from Rhode Island?”

“No! They are in addition to General Rochambeau’s command.”

“With Rochambeau’s men, that will be nearly ten thousand French!”

“Armed and battle-ready! Together with a naval force equal to anything the British have!”

“With our Continentals,” Tilghman exclaimed, “that could bring our fighting force to well over fifteen thousand!”

“For the first time since the revolution began,” Washington said.

He stopped his pacing, and Tilghman watched the iron will rise within the man. He settled, sat down in his chair, and once again he was the steady, disciplined commander. He folded the letter, then looked at Tilghman.

“I believe General Greene is still in South Carolina. Have we received any reports to the contrary?”

“No, sir. He’s still down there.”

“General Lafayette remains in Virginia?”

“He does, sir.”

“General Cornwallis is moving north, into Virginia, toward General Lafayette?”

“Yes, sir. General Greene’s forces have drawn him north, staying just out of gun range. Cornwallis has tried to follow Greene’s men—including Colonel Marion and Thomas Sumter—across at least three major rivers, the Broad, Yadkin, and the Dan, and reports are that the British force is in serious condition—sickness, lack of food, exhaustion—they simply are no match for the South Carolinians in the woods.”

“Where is General Cornwallis now? At last report?”

“He’s marching for a small town in Virginia, on the York River, to refurbish and refit his army. They’re close to total exhaustion.”

Quickly Washington unrolled a scrolled map. “Can you show me the town?”

Tilghman laid a finger on the parchment. “There, sir. A small tobacco trading village named Yorktown.”

Washington’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and he murmured, “Yorktown.” He peered down to study the map for a time. “South of Head of Elk, on Lynnhaven Harbor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The mouth of the Chesapeake is directly east. From Yorktown, ships have rapid access to the open waters of the Atlantic.”

“They do, sir.”

For a time Washington studied the map, moving his finger, making calculations. Tilghman watched, marveling at how suddenly the single message from Admiral de Grasse had elevated the entire revolution from the black depths of despair to the dizzying bright heights of hope. Never had he seen General Washington transported so quickly, so violently, from despondency to lofty optimism. He watched in silence, waiting.

Washington broke the silence. “I have heard Admiral Graves commands the British naval forces in our waters. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, at last report. Admiral Hood and perhaps Admiral Rodney may have arrived. We don’t know that. And Admiral Arbuthnot was here not long ago. It remains to be seen who Admiral Graves will use as his subordinates.”

“Admiral Graves is quite conservative, as I recall.”

“Very cautious, sir.”

Washington’s voice was calm, controlled. “Thank you. I have much to do. I must not be disturbed. See to it no one interrupts me except for most extreme matters until I send for you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are dismissed.”

At two p.m. Tilghman stopped in the hallway facing the door, a large tray of food covered with a great napkin balanced on one hand. He knocked. Seconds passed, and he was raising his hand to knock again when the familiar voice came from within.

“Enter.”

Tilghman opened the door and stepped inside. Washington raised his head, facing him. The window was open in the hope of a breeze to relieve the heavy July heat that had built up in the small office. Washington’s desktop was covered with two large maps, and a growing stack of documents he had drafted. The steely blue eyes pinioned Tilghman.

“Yes?”

“Sir, you have got to eat. I brought something.”

“Set it there.” Washington pointed to a small table in the corner of the room.

“Yes, sir.”

“Was there anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you. You are dismissed.”

Tilghman remained in the reception room through the heat of the day, listening for Washington’s door to open. At five o’clock the General walked out of the building toward the latrine, and Tilghman quickly entered his office. The tray of food had been picked at, but not eaten. The desktop was covered with documents. The maps had lines drawn on them, both on the land, and on the Atlantic and Chesapeake Bay.

At seven o’clock Tilghman brought a second tray of food, exchanged it for the half-eaten remains on the small table, and walked out with Washington hunched over his desk, quill in hand, scratching out a new document.

At ten o’clock the camp drummer pounded out taps, and the lights in the tents of the enlisted darkened. At midnight Tilghman was sitting at the foyer desk fighting sleep when the sound of the door in the hallway came, then the steady sound of Washington’s boots in the hallway. Tilghman jerked fully awake and stood.

Washington stopped, mild surprise on his face. “I expected you to be asleep in your quarters.”

“I’m fine, sir. Just wondering if you need anything.”

“Not at the moment. Could you be in my office at seven o’clock in the morning? We have much to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Thank you for your services.”

The morning sun was ninety minutes into a cloudless blue sky when Tilghman rapped on the office door and entered upon invitation. He could not recall seeing Washington so refreshed, wearing a clean uniform, long hair drawn back and caught behind his head.

“Be seated.”

Tilghman took his usual place opposite Washington and quickly scanned the desktop. The maps were scrolled on the left side, a stack of finished, sealed documents on the center and right. There was an urgency in Washington’s voice as he spoke.

“We do not have one hour to waste. What I have decided is set forth in these documents. They are my written orders to those who will participate in what is to come. The entire plan will become clear for you as I explain what I have written.”

Washington paused and Tilghman said, “I understand, sir.”

Washington picked up the first document. “This is my written order to be delivered to General Lafayette in Virginia. He is to do whatever he must to be certain General Cornwallis and his army remain in or near Yorktown.”

He picked up the second document. “These are written orders to General Nathanael Greene. He is to remain where he is in South Carolina, to hold what British forces remain there until further orders. However, he is to send whatever soldiers he can spare north, to join us at Yorktown.”

Tilghman remained silent, feeling the tension that was beginning to build in the small room.

Washington continued. “These documents are to be delivered as soon as possible to Generals Lafayette and Greene. The man who shall take them is Scout Eli Stroud. Some four months ago he spent several weeks down there, and he will know how to find both men quickly.”

Tilghman nodded, and a faint smile flickered at the remembrance of Eli Stroud—the only man in the entire Continental Army who could not be trained to salute General Washington.

“I know Scout Stroud, sir.”

Washington’s eyes narrowed, and the tension rose. “This next document is the most critical of all. It must be delivered as quickly as possible, by a courier who will not fail. It is a letter to be carried by General Duportail to Admiral de Grasse, who is either waiting in the West Indies, or under sail coming north. It informs the Admiral that General Rochambeau with his command, and I with as many men as I can spare from my command, will meet him, either off the Virginia Capes, or at Charleston, depending on developments. It requests that he send frigates and transports up the Chesapeake to Head of Elk to carry us—Rochambeau’s troops as well as my own—down the Bay to whichever location will best serve our purposes.”

Washington stopped, waiting until understanding appeared in Tilghman’s face.

“Whoever carries this message must know the waters off our coasts perfectly. Do you recall the schooner we sent down to survey circumstances in the West Indies? The Swallow?”

“I do, sir.”

“The report I received at the completion of that mission was outstanding. That vessel shall carry General Duportail, and this document, down to Admiral de Grasse.”

Tilghman nodded in silence.

Washington selected another sealed writing. “Further, the navigator on that ship will deliver this. That navigator has been represented to me as having intimate knowledge and experience with every channel, every island, the tides, and the prevailing winds on the east coast of the continent. This document is my high recommendation to Admiral de Grasse that that navigator be allowed to render to the French fleet whatever service he might in assisting them to complete their very complex assignment.”

“I understand, sir.”

Washington plucked up the next document. “This is to Admiral de Barras, in Newport. It requests that when General Rochambeau marches out with his army, the Admiral load all the siege guns and equipment left behind by General Rochambeau and transport it down to the Chesapeake Bay to make it available for use there. He is to sail in a wide arc, out into the Atlantic, to confuse the British if possible, and give Admiral de Grasse time to bring his fleet to the Chesapeake. I might add, General Rochambeau has elected to move his troops south by boat, rather than a march. It is not critical, either way.”

Washington stopped, eyes pinned on Tilghman. “What questions thus far?”

Tilghman cleared his throat. “Could I see a map of the Chesapeake, sir? It would help to see all this on a map.”

Washington handed him a scroll, and Tilghman spread it on the desktop. For nearly one minute he studied the Virginia coastline—the Capes, the Chesapeake, the York and the James rivers coming in from the west. He finished and scrolled the map. “I think I have it clear, sir.”

Washington stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he gathered his thoughts. He returned to his desk and sat down, once again facing Tilghman.

“What comes next is probably the most delicate part of the entire plan.” He paused, and the room became utterly silent, save for the quiet ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel. The tension peaked.

“We must deceive General Clinton. When we march our men out of here, we must do it in such a way that he does not realize we are gone until it is too late. The question is, how do we take thousands of men south, in plain sight, without him knowing it. If he discovers it and sends word to Admiral Graves, we could lose at Yorktown.”

For a moment he waited, and Tilghman asked, “Sir, what route will we follow in our march south?”

Washington unscrolled a map and his finger traced as he spoke. “We cross the Hudson here, at King’s Ferry near Stony Point, then march south partially hidden by the New Jersey Palisades, through Newark, on to New Brunswick. I plan to stop there long enough to hastily put together a huge encampment—big enough to make General Clinton think we’re there to stay. To add to the illusion I am ordering our forces to build a series of huge bake-ovens at Chatham—enough to serve our entire force. They will be out in the open, easily observable. The British will know of it within forty-eight hours of the moment we start building them. It is my hope General Clinton will believe we would not be building such ovens if we did not intend remaining here around New York.”

Tilghman leaned back, surprised. Washington picked up the last document.

“To help in the deception, I am ordering thirty large, flat-bottomed boats to be hauled into that camp on wagons. I think General Clinton will conclude we intend making an amphibious landing with them, and with Staten Island just off the New Jersey coast, he’ll think we intend starting there.”

He stopped, took a deep breath, and straightened in his chair. “May I ask, what is your reaction to all this, Major?” Washington’s face had never shown the intense concentration Tilghman saw in it now.

“It’s the most massive military operation I ever saw.”

Washington nodded but remained silent, waiting.

“It can go wrong in a number of places.”

“Where?”

“What if Admiral Graves reaches the Chesapeake before Admiral de Grasse? What if Clinton discovers the deception and follows our forces down to Yorktown? He could trap us between his army and the Bay. If any of our forces—the Continentals, the French army, Lafayette’s command, Greene’s command—fail to perform as ordered, and on time, the entire plan could disintegrate.”

Washington nodded. “Go on.”

“If de Grasse changes his mind as d’Estaing did, and fails to come to the Chesapeake, or if he engages the British naval forces and loses, the British will control the Bay. We would be vulnerable to immediate attack from both sides—north from Clinton, south by Cornwallis.”

“Anything else?”

“Not immediately, no, sir.”

“I’ve thought of all that, and you are right. This is a gigantic campaign. Land forces of two countries marching long distances, dependent on naval forces to eliminate the one threat that could defeat them, all requiring precise timing and dedication—it could be the perfect formula for a disaster. I know that.”

Washington was no longer able to sit, and he rose.

“But in the history of this revolution—for the past six years—there has never been a time when we have had at our fingertips a great naval force, and a trained army, in numbers larger than the British, and had the opportunity to trap one of their best generals and his command with every reason to think we can be successful. At this moment, we have it all! It will not come again! I must move now, or only the Almighty knows when this war will end, and who will win, and who will lose.”

He stopped, and Tilghman could feel the power surging from the man to touch him as he spoke in a low, steady voice, eyes like burning embers.

“I am moving ahead. I can do nothing else. We will win at Yorktown. We must! We must!”

In that moment, it seemed the air in the office was electrified. Tilghman sat silent, aware something beyond human control was present in the room. Slowly it faded, and was gone.

Washington cleared his throat and sat down, his demeanor and voice now as it normally was.

“Major Tilghman, here are my sealed orders. They must be delivered immediately. Would you see to it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Notes

Possibly the most dramatic message in the entire Revolutionary War was the one received by General Washington from the French Admiral de Grasse in late July 1781, regarding the movement of the French fleet from the West Indies to Chesapeake Bay. It set the stage for the decisive last major battle, at Yorktown.

The plan hastily made by General Washington for the movement of a major part of his own army around New York, together with that of General Rochambeau at Rhode Island, was as set forth herein, including the construction of bake-ovens at Chatham, and the moving of amphibious landing craft overland by wagon to help deceive General Clinton. The movement of the French fleet by Admiral de Grasse from the West Indies north to Chesapeake Bay, with Admiral de Barras sailing his small fleet to bring the cannon from General Rochambeau’s abandoned camp at Rhode Island down to the Chesapeake, happened as set forth. While Eli Stroud and the schooner Swallow are fictional, the messages in this chapter carried by each to the waiting generals Lafayette and Greene and to Admiral de Grasse, are actual as set forth. The names of all officers on both sides are accurate, and the role they played is correctly identified (Freeman, Washington, pp. 470–74; see especially the illustration of the entire operation, p. 71; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 380–83; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 639–44; Lumpkin, From Savannah to Yorktown, pp. 222–33).

John Laurens, son of Henry Laurens, who served as president of the Continental Congress, was sent by Congress to Paris, France, to persuade King Louis XVI to advance more money to the bankrupt United States. For six weeks he was ignored. Finally he marched into the chambers of King Louis unannounced, to demand money, on pain of America joining the British to fight France should it not be forthcoming. He got 2.3 million French livres in supplies, 2.3 million more in money, and a French-guaranteed loan from Holland for 10 million livres (Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 634–36).