Yorktown, Virginia

September–October 1781

CHAPTER XXXII

* * *

In the four o’clock a.m. black of a moonless night, Matthew Dunson stood at the bow of the schooner Swallow, grasping the handrail, white-knuckled, scarcely breathing as the tiny ship sped westward across the Virginia Capes toward Chesapeake Bay. The only crew members on deck were Matthew; the first-mate, Sol Gibbons; Captain Nunes; the helmsman standing barefooted at the great wheel; and enough seamen to make instant changes in the sails according to the silent hand signals of Gibbons as he received them from Matthew. The only sounds were the creaking of the masts and yards, and the soft hiss of the bow cutting a fourteen-foot curl in the black sea as the little ship ran full-out, canvas taut, on the easterly night winds, running against the tides.

Matthew flexed his back against the tension that had been building between his shoulder blades since midnight. That was when he had taken his position to guide the ship to the mouth of the Chesapeake, past Cape Charles and Cape Henry, cross the bay from east to west, and on up the York River to the tiny village of Yorktown on the southern bank, where the French fleet lay anchored. Moving a ship into the bay and then into the tricky channels of the river on a moonless night was work for the best of navigators. Doing it with a British fleet of warships riding at anchor near the mouth of the Chesapeake, only too willing to blast the little ship to splinters, was a thing for desperate men on a desperate mission. It had to be done in total silence, without lights, as hard and fast as the little ship could run, sometimes within yards of some of the British gunboats. For four hours Matthew had stood locked onto the handrails at the bow, pointing left and right, as he worked through the British armada, counting the great gunboats as he passed them, dreading the sound of a voice bellowing a challenge, and the first boom of heavy cannon feeling for the little Swallow in the darkness.

The thunder of cannon did not come; the peculiar sound of silence on open water held.

Matthew’s audacious gamble had succeeded—that under cover of darkness he could sail the fast little vessel through the prowling British fleet and into the Chesapeake without detection. Moving quickly and soundlessly, they had avoided the deadly guns, and the British were behind them. It was now on Matthew to remember the crooks and twists and turns in the single channel up the York River that was deep enough to allow seagoing vessels to pass without running aground. He strained to pick out the familiar landmarks in the near-total darkness, and as he raised his arms, left or right, Gibbons instantly signaled the helmsman, who spun the wheel. The little ship responded, trailing a dark zig-zag wake behind in her silent course up the river.

The gray of coming dawn separated earth from sky, revealing the first sight of the clustered masts of the French fleet. Then the white flags with the beautiful golden fleur-de-lis became visible, moving in the morning breeze. The gunboats of the French squadron anchored in Lynnhaven Bay, clustered around Yorktown, also hove into view. Lights were still shining in the windows of the town when the crew on the Swallow lowered its longboat into the water and dropped the rope ladder over the side.

Matthew hefted his seabag onto his shoulder and turned to Captain Nunes.

“I have no idea how long I’ll be, sir, or if I’ll be returning at all, depending on the orders of Admiral de Grasse.”

“I’ll drop anchor until morning and wait for your signal.”

“If Admiral de Grasse wants me to stay with his fleet, I suggest you go back the way we came. In the night. I believe Mr. Gibbons can get you out.”

Nunes bobbed his head. “Agreed. Good-bye.”

Matthew saluted, dropped his bag into the waiting boat, climbed down the rope ladder, and sat as four able seamen threw their backs into the oars. Matthew waved to Nunes and Gibbons, who waved back, and turned to study the French fleet anchored in the river. Yorktown was on the south bank, to his left, with the fishing village of Gloucester half a mile across the river to his right. Just beyond the two villages the river widened to nearly two miles, large enough to accommodate the massive anchorage of the French fleet.

With the sun turning the eastern skiff of clouds to rose and pink, Matthew began his study of the French ships. How many ships, how many decks, how many cannon, which ships had copper sheeting fastened to their hulls to avoid barnacles and growth that could cut the speed and maneuverability of a ship by one-third? In the midst of his count, his eyes widened in astonishment at the sight of the largest ship he had ever seen. Dead ahead lay a three-decked warship, its bulk slowly rising and falling on the outgoing tides, bristling with one hundred ten heavy guns. He strained to read the name carved into the heavy oak timbers of her bow. Villa de Paris. The flagship of Admiral François Joseph Paul Comte de Grasse. The monster was the largest ship afloat in the world!

He pointed, and the helmsman took a heading for the great vessel. At their approach the French crew lowered a rope ladder, and Matthew climbed past the three decks of guns and stepped onto the thick planking, followed by one of the seamen, who handed him his seabag, then descended back to the longboat.

Matthew turned to face the crew of the Villa de Paris, startled at the blaze of color before him. The men wore white uniforms, with crimson lapels and yellow sashes. His impression was that they were more concerned with appearance than substance, an opinion he would soon change. He glanced at the rows of cannon on each side of the main deck, startled to see potted flowers growing between the great guns.

An officer saluted. “Captain Maurice Yves at your service. I presume you are Matthew Dunson.”

Matthew returned the salute. “I am, sir. I carry a sealed message from General George Washington, to be delivered to Admiral de Grasse. I presume this is his flagship and that he is aboard.”

“He is, sir, and he is waiting. Follow me.”

Three minutes later Matthew was standing in the grandest state- room he had ever seen aboard a seagoing vessel. The woodwork was rich, carved, the appointments fit for a palace, the desk a work of art. He came to rigid attention facing a man seated in an upholstered chair.

“Sir, I am Matthew Dunson, reporting under orders of General George Washington.”

The man stood, and for a split second Matthew stared. Admiral de Grasse stood six feet six inches tall, broad in the shoulders, handsome, engaging.

“Ah, yes. I have been expecting you. Be seated.”

“Thank you, sir.” Matthew sat. “I bear a message from the General.”

De Grasse accepted the document, broke the seal, and for two full minutes was engrossed in reading and rereading the orders.

He raised his eyes to Matthew. “Do you know the contents?”

“No, sir.”

“Your General has generously offered your services to my fleet to serve as navigator. He suggests you are intimately acquainted with the waters on the east coast of this continent. I presume he is correct?”

“I know these waters, sir.”

“You have sailed them?”

“Many times. From the Grand Banks of Nova Scotia to the far reaches of the West Indies.”

“You know this river? The York? And the Chesapeake?”

“Very well.”

“Have you been a navigator long?”

“Six years. I was educated at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

De Grasse’s expression was amiable, cordial, but Matthew could not miss the deadly serious glint in his eyes as he continued.

“Have you seen combat at sea?”

“I served with Captain John Paul Jones, sir.”

De Grasse’s eyes widened in surprise. “Scotland? Ireland? The Serapis off Flamborough Head?”

“All of them, and other campaigns as well, sir.”

De Grasse gestured. “Do I assume you might have taken that slight disfigurement on your cheek in a sea battle?”

“On Lake Champlain, sir. I was with General Arnold when we met the British fleet coming south to attack General Washington from the rear. A cannonball shattered our railing and damaged our mast. I took a splinter of wood.”

“A most remarkable battle. Most remarkable.” He interlaced his fingers on his desk. “I take it you sailed through the British fleet anchored in the Chesapeake during the night.”

“Correct, sir. I thought it was the best chance we had. We ran without lights and in silence.”

De Grasse nodded. “Exceptional. Did you get a count of the British?”

“No, sir. Not all. It was a new moon. There was no light.”

“How did you navigate through the British fleet?”

“Stood at the bow giving silent hand signals. I had a good crew behind me, sir.”

“You came up the York in the dark? Through the channel?”

“I’ve been in these waters many times, sir. I know the channels and the shorelines. Darkness was not a problem.”

De Grasse continued. “Then you know the situation we now find ourselves in.” He paused to select his words. “My orders were to come and make my presence felt at Yorktown, to be certain General Cornwallis cannot get his army off the mainland onto British ships. I arrived before the British fleet and took up a position as you now see us. After my arrival, to my surprise, the British fleet arrived at the Chesapeake, and now lies anchored to the east, in open waters at the mouth of the bay.”

The huge man paused as though to organize his thoughts. “If General Cornwallis marches his men east, to the Norfolk coast, he can board the waiting British ships, and our fleet could not stop him because we can move our ships east only one at a time, in the river channel, and we could do so only under the guns of most of the British ships now waiting in the Chesapeake. Should Cornwallis succeed in getting onto those ships, the entire campaign General Washington now has in motion will come to nothing and could possibly become a disaster. Do you understand?”

“I reached the same conclusion coming through the British fleet last night, sir. Might I ask a few questions?”

“Proceed.”

“Do you know who commands the British fleet?”

“I am informed it is Admiral Sir Samuel Graves. Admiral Hood is with him. Possibly Admiral Rodney.”

For a moment Matthew’s forehead furrowed. “Admiral Graves is cautious to a fault. Follows the manual. If Admirals Hood and Rodney are with him, are you certain one of them is not commander of the entire fleet?”

De Grasse shook his head. “It’s Graves, on his flagship, the London.”

“Has he attempted to come up the river to engage you?”

“No.”

“How many ships and how many guns does he have?”

“Nineteen ships and some fourteen hundred cannon.”

“How many do you have?”

“Twenty-four ships, seventeen hundred cannon.”

“Slight numerical superiority,” Matthew said. “I understood Admiral de Barras with his small fleet was to eventually join you. Do you know his whereabouts?”

“The northern tip of the Chesapeake, loading French troops under command of General Rochambeau, to bring them here.” Suddenly Admiral de Grasse smiled, then chuckled. Matthew looked at him inquiringly, and de Grasse explained.

“Your General Washington was there waiting at Head of Elk when General Rochambeau arrived. We had thought General Washington to be a very, shall we say, dignified officer? Can you imagine the surprise of General Rochambeau upon his arrival when General Washington whipped off his tricorn, plucked a large white handkerchief from his pocket, and danced a jig, waving his hat and handkerchief at General Rochambeau?”

Matthew’s head jerked forward in disbelief. “General Washington did that?”

“In the midst of hundreds of troops. Profoundly shocked the lot of them. And when he was introduced to General Rochambeau he threw both arms about the man. Somewhat frightened him.”

Matthew settled back in his chair, astonished at the image of the General Washington he knew waving his hat and dancing a jig, prior to throwing his arms around anyone, let alone a French general.

Matthew moved on. “Do you know when Admiral de Barras will set sail to come here?”

“No. Not the exact date. But soon. Perhaps the next two or three days.”

“How many of your ships are copper-sheathed? I counted five.”

“You counted them all. We have five.”

For a time the men fell into silence while Matthew pieced the puzzle together in his mind.

“If Admiral de Barras arrives with General Rochambeau’s army while the British still control the Chesapeake, the entire campaign could be lost.”

“Precisely.”

Matthew set his jaw for a moment. “That raises the final question. What are your orders, sir, if I may be so bold? Are you to defeat Admiral Graves, or are you to be certain he is prevented from giving General Cornwallis support and a means of escape from the mainland?”

“My orders are to do whatever is necessary to assure that General Cornwallis does not have support from the sea, or an avenue to escape our land troops, which are coming both from the north and the south to trap him.”

Matthew nodded. “Then it appears, sir, that there is but one thing to be done. This fleet must move out into the Chesapeake and engage Admiral Grave’s ships, and either defeat them, or drive them far enough away that they cannot be of assistance to General Cornwallis.”

De Grasse eased back in his chair, eyes locked with Matthew’s. He saw a light in the younger man, and a steadiness, and slowly something began to rise within. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Yes, sir. To reach the Chesapeake from here you’re going to have to move your ships down the river channel in single file. I think it would be a serious mistake if this ship leads. She’s too big. If for any reason she didn’t make it, nothing behind her could get past. I think the leader will have to be a smaller ship, and one with copper sheeting, so she can move faster and maneuver quicker.”

“The tides?”

“They’ll be running with us by tomorrow morning, but the winds will be quartering in from the northeast, against us. We’ll have to tack to get out.”

“And what will the British be doing while we’re coming out?”

“One of two things, sir. They’ll enter the bay and anchor about eight of their best ships at the mouth of the river, four on each side, and shell us as we come out, or they’ll wait for us out in the open sea for a battle.”

De Grasse shook his head. “It is unthinkable that any competent naval officer would miss the opportunity to catch us coming out of the narrow river channel in a single file battle line, tacking slowly into the wind. With eight or ten of his heavier warships anchored at the river’s mouth, he could chop us to pieces, one a time.”

Matthew nodded. “That’s clear, sir, but there’s always the chance that Admiral Graves will do what he has always done. He lives by the Manual of Naval Operations. The British version says that when ships of the line engage an enemy, they should take battle formation to give each other support, and give their guns maximum access to the enemy. If he follows the manual, he’ll hold his fleet out in the Atlantic, take up a battle line, and wait to engage us out on the open water.”

“Ridiculous!”

“Any other admiral in any navy, I would agree, sir. But Admiral Graves? It’s possible, sir. I’ve read his history. He’s keenly aware of what happened to Thomas Matthews and John Byng about forty years ago for failing to follow the fighting instructions in his manual. Thomas was drummed out of the service, and Byng was shot by a firing squad on his own quarterdeck. There’s a chance—a small one—that Admiral Graves will follow the manual.”

“And if he doesn’t? If he meets us at the mouth of the river with half his fleet?”

Matthew stiffened. “Then we fight our way out, sir. Come as fast as we can. Send the five, copper-sheeted ships first and hope they get out and are able to draw off some of the British while the others come on through. Pick the fastest one you have to lead. I volunteer to act as navigator. I can get her through the channel with the least loss of time, and the others can follow. We’ll have to do it in daylight.”

In that moment something arose inside Admiral de Grasse. Before him sat an intense, apparently capable young man, who was volunteering his life on a scheme to rescue one of the most critical campaigns in the history of the American Revolution, knowing that it would be a miracle if it were to succeed. In that fleeting moment de Grasse was suddenly thirty years younger, feeling once again the rise of hot blood to a challenge, and the incomparable thrill of taking on unbeatable odds in a fight that must be won. He leaned forward, eyes glowing.

“You’ll lead that first ship out?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll need a good ship, with copper sheeting on the hull, and a dependable captain with battle experience.”

“Commodore Louis Antoine de Bougainville, commanding the Auguste. I’ll prepare the orders today, and we will leave at first light in the morning.”                

Throughout the day Matthew paced the quarterdeck of the great warship, watching as the French fleet received their written orders and slowly maneuvered into the battle line. With sunset setting their sails afire, they were ready. Matthew strode to the quarters of Admiral de Grasse to say his farewell, and ten minutes later was seated in a longboat as six French sailors rhythmically oared to the side of the Auguste. He climbed the rope ladder, saluted the officer of the deck, and was led to the quarters of Commodore Bougainville.

The cabin was small and plain. Bougainville was of average height, weathered, wise to the ways of men of ships and the sea, and apparently not inclined to frills. Within twenty minutes Matthew was taking evening mess with the officers of the ship and afterward was shown to his quarters. He was to share the tiny cabin of the first mate, Jean Montreal.

Matthew dropped his seabag on the foot of his bunk and sat down in the warm quiet of the close quarters. He had not slept for thirty hours. Six of them had been spent in unbearable tension, navigating the tiny Swallow through the British fleet in the black of night. In the deep dusk, he surrendered to his weariness. He removed his boots to drop them thumping on the floor, removed his tunic and shirt, felt in his tunic pocket for the familiar watch fob, and quietly bowed his head to briefly ask the Almighty’s protection on Kathleen and John. Then he lay down on his bunk, and within minutes the friendly, faint rocking of the ship on the outgoing tide had lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

In the darkness preceding dawn, silent French sailors gathered in the mess galleys of the ships to eat a breakfast of hot oatmeal porridge and sausages, then walked out onto the decks of the ships to their duty stations. Every man knew that the battle line they had formed the day before, with the American navigator standing on the bow of the Auguste to lead them out into the bay, meant but one thing. They had delivered their fate into the hands of the hated British. Eight warships flying the Union Jack at the mouth of the James River could sink them all, one at a time. They stood quietly, waiting for the orders that would begin the longest day of their lives.

Bougainville stood at Matthew’s shoulder. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, sir.”

The commodore turned to the first mate. “Unfurl all sails. Proceed east to the Chesapeake.”

“Aye, sir.” Montreal barked the orders, and barefooted sailors in the ropes on the arms jerked the knots free. The canvas dropped, billowing, and expert hands began the slow, tricky work of tacking back and forth, moving with the tides eastward into the morning breeze.

They had ten miles to go before they would reach the river’s mouth and the open waters of the Chesapeake. Eighty feet overhead, a sailor clung to the handrail of the crow’s nest, telescope in hand, eyes straining to see the first masts of the British fleet that awaited them.

Sunrise caught the sails, and the heat of the day began to build. Slowly, steadily the Auguste worked its way eastward with Matthew giving hand directions to the helmsman—port, starboard, more, less—as they skirted the sandbars and the snags that could ground or rupture the hull of a ship. Behind them, taking a two-hundred-yard interval, came the remainder of the French fleet, copper-sheeted first, flagship next, and the remaining eighteen vessels spaced out behind.

With the sun three hours high, the river widened where it emptied into the Chesapeake, and every eye on the Auguste was watching straight ahead, waiting to see if they would live or die. The distance narrowed—half-mile, quarter-mile, two hundred yards—and Matthew turned to peer up at the sailor in the crow’s nest.

“What do you see?” he called.

Dead silence gripped every man in the crew as they waited.

“Nothing, sir. Not one mast. Not one ship.”

A roar erupted among the crew.

Matthew and Bougainville stared at each other, confounded, disbelieving that Graves had failed in his golden chance to destroy the French fleet as they emerged from the river. Neither could recall such a colossal blunder in the history of navies. Matthew closed his eyes and drew and released a great breath, then called once more.

“Can you see across the bay? Cape Charles on the north and Cape Henry on the south of the mouth of the bay, out into the Atlantic?”

The seaman clamped his telescope to his eye and for thirty seconds glassed everything ahead before he cupped his hand and shouted, “I can, sir. Nothing. There is no ship in sight.”

Again a shout erupted from the crew to roll out across the waters.

Matthew turned to Bougainville. “Graves could not get out of the British Manual! He has to be out in open water with his fleet formed into a battle line. Impossible!”

He turned to the helmsman. “Steady as she goes, dead ahead.”

They held their course, tacking east, slowly but steadily across the Chesapeake, and started through the mouth of the bay, between Cape Charles and Cape Henry, watching in the bright sunlight for the first movement on the open water.

It came as they cleared Cape Charles. The lookout in the crow’s nest threw up his arm and called out: “There, sir! Dead ahead, two miles. Looks like the whole British fleet formed into a battle line.”

Instantly Matthew spun toward Bougainville. “We’re clear of the bay, sir. Open deep water before us. The ship is yours for whatever maneuvers you deem appropriate. Request permission to join a gun crew.”

Bougainville shook his head. “You remain here at my side. I may need help reading the British signal flags.” He turned to shout orders. “Helmsman! Take a heading twenty degrees to port, north of the leading British ship. We must get upwind of them, then turn to starboard for the engagement.”

“Aye, sir.”

The helmsman spun the six-foot wheel, and the ship swung to port, bearing left of the British line, intending to proceed parallel to them before turning starboard, directly into them, for the battle. The four ships behind the Auguste, all copper-sheeted, distanced those behind as they sped on.

Thirty seconds passed before the British line of ships set all sails to the wind and came head-on, running at top speed. Matthew watched the British signal flags like a hawk, waiting to see what orders Graves would give. He saw the single white flag raised to the top of the mainmast and turned to Bougainville.

“White flag. It means ‘line ahead.’ He means to hold his ships in line to start his attack.”

Bougainville turned to the helmsman. “Steady as she goes. Let them come to us.”

“Aye, sir.”

The four ships following Bougainville fell into battle line behind the Auguste and held their course as they passed the leaders in the British line, out of cannon range, but angling to starboard to engage. Then, suddenly, Matthew gaped! The British flagship London, commanded by Admiral Graves, slowed and came to a dead stop in the water! For reasons never known, Graves had delivered the initiative into the hands of the incredulous Bougainville.

In the next ten seconds Matthew watched as the blue and white checkered flag was quickly raised, and he waited for the white flag to be quickly withdrawn, but the white flag remained.

He shouted to Bougainville, “Graves has made a mistake! One flag says hold the line, the other one says bear down and engage close. They can’t do both! They’re going to disintegrate their battle formation!”

While the French crews watched, the British formation came to pieces. Some captains closed to engage while others held the line. Within five minutes British ships were in small clusters, some closing with the French to engage, others holding the line, waiting for the French line to form for the battle.

Admiral Graves ordered his sails filled, brought his ship around broadside but out of range of the nearest French ship, shouted orders, and the sound of his first broadside came blasting over the water. Every cannonball fell two hundred yards short. From behind Bougainville’s five ships, the nineteen flying the white French flag came into line, and for the first time, the two opposing fleets were within range of each other.

As though by mutual signal, they opened fire. Fifteen hundred cannon roared at nearly the same moment, and white smoke lay thick between them. Sweating crews hauled their cannon back from their gun ports to reload, then rolled them forward into position, and waited for orders to fire the next broadside. In the wild, disorganized melee, Graves ordered more signal flags to the top of his main mast, but again neglected withdrawing those already aloft. The confused orders were so mixed that his fleet ignored them, each ship’s captain picking targets of opportunity.

Bougainville led his small squadron of five, head-on into eight British ships, taking and delivering broadsides as he bore in. The French gunners fired as their ship was rising on the sea swells, to send their shot into the rigging and masts of the British vessels, in their belief that to destroy a ship’s ability to maneuver was more critical than punching holes in the hull. The British cannoneers fired as their ship was falling on a sea swell, believing that holes in the hull were more effective.

Matthew felt the vibrations in the planking of the Auguste as she took hit after hit in her hull. Two gun crews were out of action. Shattered timbers littered the deck, and casualties were mounting. Bougainville shouted orders, and she closed with the British Princessa to blast her mast in half and shatter two of the arms and her sails. The Princessa turned to make a run, and Bougainville shifted his attack to the Terrible. The Auguste came around broadside at point-blank range, and Bougainville shouted, “Fire!” Thirty cannon roared in unison, and shattered masts and arms flew on the mortally crippled Terrible, dropping great chunks of splintered timbers and the mainsails onto the frantic crew below.

Sweating in the humid September afternoon heat, caught up in a world of thundering cannon and white gun smoke that covered the Atlantic waters for two miles, Matthew stood firm beside Commodore Bougainville as ordered, watching, feeling the tempo of the raging battle, waiting for that peculiar moment when the sense of who was winning and who was losing would clarify. He saw ships close within pistol-shot of each other, and could hear the faint shouts of frantic gun crew captains commanding their men to stand fast, keep loading and firing, and he could hear the moans and shrieks of men wounded and dying on the battered decks of both French and British ships.

The battle raged on through the sweltering heat of the afternoon. The French Diademe took two point-blank broadsides from the British Barfleur that knocked out all but thirteen of her sixty-four guns and crippled her, and the French Saint-Esprit came racing to rake the Barfleur from stem to stern with her thirty-six-pound guns. The Barfleur trimmed her sails and fled.

By five o’clock Matthew knew. The tide of battle was running in favor of the French. At six o’clock he watched as the signal flags on the London were hauled in.

Admiral Graves had had enough. Within minutes the British ships were withdrawing, moving south, running with the northeast winds. The booming thunder of the great guns quieted, and the smoke cleared before the winds. The sea battle of Chesapeake Bay was over.

The crews of the ships on both sides turned to the heart-breaking task of seeking their dead and wounded, dreading the sight of what a cannonball could do to the body of a man, hating the tasks of clearing smashed masts and arms lying in wrecked heaps where they had fallen on the decks of their ships and removing sail canvas hanging in shreds from the splintered arms and masts overhead.

At seven o’clock Matthew stood on the quarterdeck, telescope to his eye, studying the Villa de Paris, half a mile distant. In the setting sun he saw the signal flags go up the mainmast, and he studied them for a time before he hurried to Commodore Bougainville’s quarters.

“Sir, I believe Admiral de Grasse has hoisted a signal flag telling this entire command to lead the British south.”

Three minutes later, standing at the ship’s rail, Bougainville brought his telescope from his eye. “That is correct. It is his plan to draw them away from the Chesapeake to give Admiral de Barras sufficient time to enter the bay and unload the heavy guns he is carrying. When he is unloaded he will have eight warships available to join us.”

By dusk the French fleet was once again in battle line, running south with the wind, parallel and slightly ahead of the battered British fleet, over a mile distant to port side, drawing them further south with each passing hour. At full darkness the running lights of both fleets came on, tiny points in the black of night. At ten o’clock a young ensign in command of a longboat hailed the Auguste, and the officer of the deck answered.

The young voice came again, strangely loud over the water. “Hello, the Auguste. Approaching with a message from Admiral de Grasse on the Villa de Paris. Request permission to board.”

Fifteen minutes later the young ensign, still wearing a smoke-stained uniform, stood at rigid attention before Commodore Bougainville, waiting while he read the message. Bougainville turned to Matthew.

“The Admiral desires your presence aboard his flagship. He needs a navigator familiar with these waters for night sailing.”

At midnight Matthew was at the bow of the Villa de Paris, straining to see the sparse scatter of dim lights on the shores of the Virginia Capes to starboard, and the running lights of the British fleet to port. He took his bearings from the sliver of moon just above the eastern horizon and settled to watch.

Thoughts came. Kathleen? And John. John Matthew. He smiled in the darkness. Dark-eyed and dark-haired like himself, the tiny soul had the square set to his face of his grandfather, John Phelps Dunson, after whom he had been named. The grandfather the boy would never know in this life. Matthew sobered. I’ll tell him. He’ll know about his grandfather—how he took up arms for freedom. Liberty. How he gave his life. He’ll know. Kathleen’s face came before him, and he felt the old, familiar rise of excitement in the depths of his soul, and the yearning. And in that moment he realized that he had changed. A sense of caution had crept in. No longer did he face battle with abandon. No longer did he rise to mortal danger heedless of his own safety, his own life. The quiet thought of Kathleen and John at home, waiting, pulled at him, tempered him. He worked with the new understanding for a time, then put it away to be taken out again in quiet moments and examined.

For two days de Grasse held his course, keeping the British fleet in sight to port as they sailed steadily south, each fleet working on repairs, aiding their wounded, and burying their dead in canvas bags at sea.

On the first night, near two o’clock in the morning, nearly two miles to port, flame leaped two hundred feet into the air, and seconds later the sounds of a tremendous blast rolled over the startled French fleet. The following morning, there was one less British ship. Admiral Graves had stripped the sinking Terrible of all stores and cannon, set timed mines among ten barrels of gunpowder in her magazine, and blown her to bits.

On the second day Matthew pointed to starboard. “Albemarle Sound. We’re off the North Carolina reefs.”

With the sun setting, de Grasse ordered Matthew to his cabin.

“Tonight, just after full darkness, it is my plan to turn this fleet about. Leave Admiral Graves sailing farther south while we return to blockade Chesapeake Bay. My orders were to do whatever necessary to be certain he could not rescue General Cornwallis from the mainland. I believe that can be most speedily and surely accomplished, with the least loss of life and ships, by keeping him in the Atlantic. I am confident Admiral de Barras has unloaded his guns by this time and can join us in the blockade. Can you turn this fleet in the dark and take her back safely to the mouth of the Chesapeake?”

“Yes, sir.”

By midnight the French fleet had every sail trimmed for the run north. By morning they had distanced the British by sixteen miles. The following day, in the late afternoon, they arrived at Chesapeake Bay, where Matthew stood at the rail with his telescope, probing for the eight warships under command of Admiral de Barras.

“There,” he exclaimed. “Admiral de Barras is here.”

Admiral de Grasse ably positioned his fleet of twenty-four, with the eight newly arrived ships, inside the Chesapeake, in two separate lines, one inside the other, and waited for the British to appear off Cape Charles. There was no chance the eighteen ships remaining in Grave’s command, some still partially disabled, could survive a fight with thirty-two French men-of-war inside the bay.

General Cornwallis and his army were trapped. Landlocked.

Admiral de Grasse did not have long to wait. British sails appeared timorously in the gap between Cape Charles and Cape Henry, and Admiral Graves took one look at the numbers, and the formation of the French fleet.

He sent a message to Admiral Hood. “To Admiral Sir Samuel Hood. Send your recommendations earliest on what should be done.”

The answer came back promptly from an enraged, nearly apoplectic Samuel Hood. “Sir Samuel would be very glad to send an opinion, but he really knows not what to say in the truly lamentable state we have brought ourselves.”

Without subjecting himself to a charge of insubordination, it was as close as Admiral Hood could come to telling Admiral Graves he had bungled the entire operation miserably.

Sitting in his cabin alone, Admiral Graves slumped forward, and all the air went out of him. He rolled his head, eyes closed in agony for a time, while his brain leaped from one plan to another in a vain attempt to redeem his colossal failure. Each plan was worse than the last. It was a long time before he took quill in hand and wrote out the only order he could give.

“To all vessels. Make sail immediately for New York to refit and refurbish.”

Onshore, a stunned General Cornwallis received the news that the entire British fleet, his single lifeline for supplies and men if he needed them, or for escape from the mainland should he find evacuation necessary, was irretrievably gone. Instantly he wrote a message to General Clinton in New York.

“Sir: Admiral de Grasse’s fleet is within the Capes of the Chesapeake! Admiral Graves has sailed north, probably to New York. Am in need of assistance.”

Four days later he received Clinton’s reply.

“Sir: I think the best way to relieve you is to join you as soon as possible, with all the force that can be spared from hence. Which is about four thousand men.”

Cornwallis heaved a great sigh of relief. Four thousand men, armed, with cannon. He could build breastworks and abatis and redoubts around Yorktown, and with the men and supplies promised from Clinton could hold the French and Americans at bay for as long as needed. He issued his orders: Begin construction of two lines of defense, a half-circle in shape, beginning half a mile east of Yorktown and ending a half-mile west. With the York River at his back, and well-constructed defensive lines before him, he had no fear. The Americans had no guns heavy enough to destroy solid defensive lines. Let them come.

What he did not know was that there were two colossal flaws in his plan. First, he did not know that the eight ships de Barras had sailed into the Chesapeake had been packed with heavy siege cannon and mortars, and that they were now unloaded, being transported toward Yorktown. Second, General Clinton was not aware that Admiral Graves’s fleet had suffered extensive damage in the battle of Chesapeake Bay, with the result that Clinton did not have sufficient seaworthy ships to make good on his promise to deliver men and supplies to the waiting Cornwallis.

The slightest hint of the subtle change from summer to fall was in the air. Days were becoming shorter, nights cooler. In the forests, squirrels darted about everywhere, gathering nuts and acorns in their cheeks to stop, tails arched over their backs, staring beady-eyed at the men intruding into their kingdom. Leaves that were green one day showed the faintest hint of yellow or red the next. There was a creeping sense of urgency in the French and Americans—they must deal with Cornwallis soon, or lose their opportunity to the oncoming fall, when savage storms and hurricanes would reach north from the West Indies. A hurricane could ravage the French fleet anchored in the bay in hours.

On a clear morning, crews aboard the anchored ships watched the captured British vessel Queen Charlotte sail close to the great Villa de Paris and drop anchor. Minutes later a longboat approached the gigantic flagship with General George Washington seated in the stern and with Generals Knox and Duportail seated beside him, all under guard of half a dozen specially picked soldiers. The rope ladder was dropped, and the boarding party climbed onto the high deck of the host vessel.

Admiral de Grasse emerged from his cabin at the proper moment, glowing with enthusiasm and goodwill. He strode to General Washington, and for perhaps the only time in his life, General Washington looked up into the face of an officer taller than himself. The ever gracious de Grasse exclaimed, “Mon petit general”—My little general—and proceeded to wrap Washington within his arms and kiss him soundly on each cheek. General Henry Knox stood dumbstruck, watching to see what Washington would do. There was shock, mixed with that indomitable iron will in Washington’s face as he stepped back and bowed slightly to de Grasse.

“I am honored, sir.”

Five minutes later the four men—Washington, de Grasse, Knox, and Duportail—were gathered in the luxury of the admiral’s quarters. To his great credit, de Grasse humbly invited General Washington to take control of the council.

“I thank you, Admiral.” Washington did not waste one minute.

“It is my plan to place General Cornwallis and his troops under siege. To do so I make the following observations, and I will make the following dispositions of our forces.”

“Pardon, sir,” de Grasse said. “How many men are available to you?”

“Eight thousand eight hundred Americans, with seven thousand eight hundred French, under command of General Rochambeau. With a few militia, around seventeen thousand men. My reports indicate General Cornwallis has between six thousand and seven thousand British troops in Yorktown.”

De Grasse nodded. “The numbers are favorable.” He was referring to the established maxim, an attacking force should have two to three times the number of a defending force.

Washington pushed on. “I should add, I was fearful General Clinton in New York would discover that the major portion of the Continental Army posted there had marched out to come here, and for that reason did what I could to deceive him. We built bake-ovens at Chatham and established a large camp nearby. Apparently the deception succeeded. We had been marching for nine days before he realized we were gone and could do nothing about it. I do not yet know what he might do to relieve Cornwallis, but in any event, we are prepared to account for ourselves.”

Knox nodded but said nothing. Washington turned to Knox, who handed him a folded map. Washington spread it on the table with the others quickly aware it was a detail of the entire Yorktown area. Washington tapped the tiny village with his finger.

“General Cornwallis is here, in Yorktown. Across the river, half a mile, here, he has a second camp at Gloucester. Cornwallis’s quarters are here, at the Nelson house, on the eastern edge of the town. He has begun building his inner line of defenses in a half-circle, beginning here at river’s edge, about half a mile east of town, and circling south, then back to the river west of the town, here.”

He waited until recognition registered in the other men, then continued. “He is constructing a second line of defenses further out, here, in an expanded half-circle, from the river bank to the east, to the bank on the west. On the outer line, he has placed two heavy redoubts with heavy guns here, and here, and they are referred to as Redoubt Number Nine, here, and Redoubt Number Ten, next to the river, here.”

“Any questions thus far?”

There were none, and Washington went on. “To conduct the siege, it is my plan to establish our lines in the same half-circle, only slightly further out. The various commands will be as follows, beginning here, on the river’s edge east of the town. General Lincoln will be here, just south of Wormley Pond, which empties into Wormley Creek.” He moved his finger in a half-circle on the map as he spoke. “Here, General Lafayette with his men. Here, an American hospital. Here, a French hospital. Here, General von Steuben’s camp. Here, General Rochambeau’s headquarters, next to mine, just west of York Creek. Here, Baron Vonmenil’s headquarters, and finally, here, on river’s edge west of town, will be a large battery of French cannon, capable of shelling anything on the river near Yorktown, as well as Gloucester, across the river.”

“Any questions thus far?”

There were none.

Washington continued. “We are getting late in the season. We must move rapidly. With your concurrence, Admiral de Grasse, I will issue orders immediately.”

“Sir, I am here to support you.”

Few would ever know the noble gesture of the great de Grasse as he acknowledged his subservient role to the American general. And few would know or remember the near-reverence with which the French troops regarded Washington. As he left the ship, and mounted his horse waiting on shore for the ride to his camp, the French soldiers came to attention, showing him honor reserved for the very few. He could hear the quiet murmur among the uniformed French, “Le grand Washington.” He sat erect, hat in his hand, as he rode among them, acknowledging his deep gratitude for their presence. Never in the six years he had borne the Revolution on his back had he had a trained army of seventeen thousand men at his command. Never had he enjoyed the blessing of superior numbers, as he did now. He had waited six long, dark years for this day, and no man alive could feel what was coursing through Washington as he realized his dream had come to pass.

It was in his power to strike the blow that could end the war and secure for his beloved America the victory that had so long eluded him and the liberty that would follow. In his heart was a silent prayer—Almighty Ruler of the Universe, let it come to pass.

The following morning, Washington’s written orders were distributed to the commanders—French, German, and American. Two days later, every camp was established, and every man understood his assignment.

In General Lincoln’s American camp that anchored the east end of the siege line, Billy Weems dropped to his haunches with his evening plate of hot food in hand. Next to him, Sergeant Alvin Turlock tested the hot stew, sucked his singed tongue, and stuffed a healthy chunk of thick, brown bread in his mouth.

“Looks like we’re goin’ to be diggin’ for a while. This siege business is just two things: dig trenches and listen to cannon. Day and night. Just keep diggin’ trenches zig-zag towards the enemy, and keep movin’ the guns, squeezin’ tighter and tighter like a big snake. Can’t sleep nights because the guns don’t quit at dark—just keep bangin’ away.”

Billy nodded. “Better than a bayonet attack. Likely saves a lot of men.”

Turlock nodded. “It does. But it sure wears a body out—all that diggin’ and no sleep. We better bed down early as long as we can. When them guns start, there’s no sleepin’ ’til she’s over.”

Billy remained silent for a moment. “Wonder where Eli is.”

Turlock paused. “I been thinkin’ the same thing. Not like him to just not come back.”

They finished their evening mess, cleaned camp, and went to their tents. The drummer banged out taps, the lights went out, and for a time Billy lay on his blanket, eyes open, mind running. I hope Eli’s all right—I hope so—I wish I knew—Was Matthew with the French fleet that beat the British?—Was he?—And Caleb—Is he here somewhere?

A quarter mile southwest, in the camp commanded by General Lafayette, Eli Stroud lay on his blanket in the blackness, sorting out his thoughts. General Washington had ordered him to deliver the message to Lafayette weeks ago, and then remain with him. He had followed the orders faithfully, marching with Lafayette’s column from southern Virginia to the York River when the order came from Washington to gather at Yorktown. It seemed that most of the Continental Army and half the French army had arrived at the same time. Was Billy with the Continentals?—If he is, with which command? He turned on his side. I’ll find him—he has to be here, and I’ll find him, sooner or later. Weariness came over him, and he drifted for a time, with the image of Mary in his mind, and then that of an infant with Mary’s dark eyes and dark hair. A beautiful infant he had left behind in the far reaches of the north, with his sister. I’ll be back—I’ll finish here and I’ll find Billy—and I’ll go back to Laura and Ben and Lydia. His last thought before sleep was of Mary.

Days and nights blurred into an unending round of digging siege trenches in the peculiar zig-zag pattern, so enemy riflemen could not command a field of fire the length of any one trench. At night, sweating in the moist heat, men laboriously moved the big guns ever closer to the British outer line.

Then, on September 29, General Cornwallis received a message from General Clinton.

“My Lord: At a meeting of the General and Flag officers held this day, it is determined that above five thousand men, rank and file, shall be embarked on board the King’s ships, and the joint exertions of the navy and army made in a few days to relieve you, and afterwards cooperate with you. The fleet consists of twenty-three sail of the line, three of which are three-deckers. There is every reason to hope we start from hence the fifth of October.”

Relief flooded through Cornwallis. Help was on the way! Quickly he reviewed his plans to defend Yorktown and made one key adjustment. With ample help to arrive within the week, it would be prudent to strengthen his inner lines by abandoning his outer lines. All his men could hold the inner lines for at least one week. Quickly he gave orders. “Abandon the outer lines. Draw everything to the inner line of defense.”

The morning of September 30, a stunned General Washington discovered the outer defenses of the British to be abandoned. How could that be? What was the reason? He wasted no time with unanswerable questions. He issued his orders:

“Advance immediately to occupy the outer line of defense, now abandoned by the British.”

Before nightfall, the Americans were in the British trenches, behind the breastworks, peering at easy cannon range at the inner line of defenses, and just beyond, at the small village.

On October 2, General Washington realized the British encampment on the Gloucester side of the river could become a thorn, gouging the Americans at will. He ordered French General de Choisy to lead an attack force to take the British camp out of commission, one way or another. De Choisy handpicked a fighting force of riflemen trained to fight in the South, and on the morning of October 3, crossed the river well above the fishing village of Gloucester Point. Among those in the lead of his small command was a young, clear-eyed American named Caleb Dunson, carrying a Deckhard rifle, wanting nothing more than to engage the British. Beside him stood a determined Primus, rifle in hand.

What was not known at the time was that the British encampment at Gloucester was commanded by Colonel Banastre Tarleton.

The small force of Americans hit the British camp at sunup, screaming like insane men, and in ten seconds half of them recognized the green uniforms of Tarleton’s command. They ripped into the British, dodging from tree to tree, firing, running while they reloaded, firing again with those deadly rifles. Caleb dropped to one knee behind a log, watching everything ahead that moved, trying to find the great green plume that would mark Tarleton, but it was not there.

Tarleton’s men made one vain effort to take a stand, then broke and scattered. There was nothing to be gained by chasing them, so de Choisy ordered his band to stop at the British camp and make it their own. Tarleton had escaped once again, but his fighting force never got back into the siege of Yorktown.

Caleb and Primus walked to the fire in the center of the camp where hot coffee still boiled. Caleb took a cup thrown down by a fleeing British soldier, poured, and sipped at it, wondering. Is Billy around somewhere? And Matthew? Was Matthew with the French fleet that drove the British out?

He dropped to his haunches, rifle nearby. I’ll find out before this is over.

October 6, work concluded on the first of the heavy gun emplacements, and the first of the French cannon were dragged into place two days later. October 9, the big guns roared, and the huge cannonballs ripped into the British breastworks.

Everything was in place. The siege had begun.

The following morning the great American battery to the right was finished. The Americans gathered about, standing at attention as General Washington took his place next to the huge cannon. A major handed him the smoking linstock, Washington inspected it for a moment, and turned his eyes momentarily toward Yorktown. On his face was the most satisfied look ever seen by any of his officers.

He touched the smoking linstock to the touchhole, the big gun bucked and roared, and the Americans were into the siege.

October 11, Cornwallis wrote a dark message to Clinton.

“We have lost about seventy of our men and many of our works are considerably damaged: with such works on disadvantageous ground, against so powerful an attack we cannot hope to make a very long resistance. P. S. 5:00 p.m. Since my letter was written at 12 M., we have lost thirty men. . . . We continue to lose men very fast.”

Clinton received the message and went into shock. The repairs on Graves’s fleet had been delayed and were far more extensive than anticipated. By working crews night and day, he might effect repairs by October 15. But on that day the tides and winds would be against him. The earliest he could hope to send the promised help to the desperate Cornwallis would be beyond October 17. He gave orders and tried to control his worst fears.

At the American camp near the York River, Turlock turned to Billy in the deep purple of dusk. To the west, the roar of the great siege guns never ceased, and the muzzle flashes were a constant kaleidoscope of orange and yellow color lighting the river and the camps beneath the dark heavens.

“Getting tired of this.”

Billy opened his mouth to answer, then stopped at the sight of a messenger running toward the tent of General Lincoln.

“Something’s happened,” Billy murmured.

Turlock raised his head, looking about. “What?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough.”

Twenty minutes later a captain motioned to Billy and two other lieutenants and led them to a campfire near his tent.

“I’m Captain Deevers. Those two British redoubts over by the river. They’re shelling the French. General Washington’s decided to take them by storm. The French are going to take the one on the left—Number Nine—and we’re going to take the one on the right—Number Ten. Tomorrow morning before dawn. Colonel Alexander Hamilton will be in command. I’ll lead my company, and you’re to join me with yours. Get your men ready. Ammunition, bayonets, and some rest.”

Turlock snorted. “In this racket?”

The captain grinned. “We leave from here at four o’clock in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

The men sensed it like a scent in the air. Taking the redoubts was somehow going to end the battle. Carefully they counted out cartridges and placed them in their cartridge boxes on their belts. They checked the flints in their musket hammers and snapped open the frizzens to be certain they would not jam. None felt like eating, but they drank from their worn wooden canteens. Then they sought their tents and tried to shut out the incessant booming of the big guns while they closed their eyes, most of them sitting up, trying to sleep.

Turlock spoke. “You seen them redoubts?”

“Yes.”

“Look like a porcupine, with all them pointed logs stickin’ out. And that ditch around the bottom. We got to get across that ditch, then climb up to them logs and get over them, right into the British inside. They’ll be up there with grapeshot and muskets and bayonets. Sounds like a real party.”

Billy was quiet for a time. “If we catch them by surprise, we’ll make it.”

“Not all of us.”

Billy shook his head. “We’ll make it.”

The guns boomed, and the muzzles lit up the skies, and the ground shook through the night. At three thirty a.m. Billy was on his feet.

“Time to move. Form into rank and file. We leave in half an hour.”

The men took their places, silent, their faces blank in the light of the unending gun flashes.

At four o’clock, Deevers walked past them and spoke to Billy. “Keep low, and don’t make a sound. Surprise is on our side.”

The column marched north across the bridge that spanned Wormley Creek, then flanked hard left, directly to the American trenches and breastworks. They passed over them and continued due west, parallel to the river, forty yards to their right. The muzzle flashes of the American and French cannon cast the entire town and most of the breastworks in unending moments of eerie light. To their left, caught in the yellow flashes, the Americans saw the French, one hundred fifty yards away, crouched low, working their way toward Redoubt Nine.

It seemed but a moment until Deevers raised a hand and the column stopped. Ahead, on high ground, was the gun emplacement with the ugly sharpened spears thrusting outward to impale any attackers. Above the spears were the muzzles of the British cannon. Faint silhouettes of British regulars were seen in the gun flashes, between the cannon, muskets ready, bayonets mounted.

“Ready?”

Billy nodded. “Let’s go.”

The captain stood and shouted, “Take the redoubt!” and sprinted forward. Billy was right behind him, Turlock to his right, while his command of men, with the others, charged forward, shouting in the din of the big guns. They had not yet reached the wide ditch that circled the base of the redoubt when the first muskets blasted down at them from above. A few men stumbled and went down. Billy leaped into the ditch and frantically clambered up the far side, coming up under the sharpened stakes. Desperately he seized the first one with his hands, and threw his back into it. Slowly it loosened from its mount, and once again Billy wrenched outward. It came with a jerk, and he threw it behind him to scramble through the hole it left, up to the level of the cannon and the British defenders, shouting, “Follow me—we’ve breached the wall.”

A British regular lunged over the breastwork, bayonet poised, and Billy caught the big Brown Bess musket with one hand and the front of the soldier’s tunic with the other. In one thrust he lifted the man over the wall and threw him over the top of his head. A cannoneer trying to turn the cannon toward Billy was silhouetted by a distant gunflash, and Billy leaped. He caught the muzzle of the gun, ducked to get his shoulder beneath it, and heaved upward with all his strength. The terrified gunner watched the big gun tip upward and topple backward into the redoubt. Horrified at the strength of the man before him, he turned on his heel and leaped back inside the redoubt to run.

Billy had not looked back, but he could hear his men, and those of the other command inside the redoubt behind him, and he could see the wild face-to-face, hand-to-hand fight going on all around him. To his right he saw a British gunner reaching with a linstock, too far to reach, and he seized a fallen musket too late as the cannon blasted. Flame leaped ten feet from the muzzle, and in the flash Billy saw Turlock too close to the gun and he saw the little man throw his hands upward as he went down, limp.

“Turlock,” Billy screamed, but he could not stop to go to him. He swung the musket like a club, knocking regulars back, smashing them with his fist to keep them down.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. What was left of the British threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees, hands raised high. A great shout rose from the Americans as Billy spun and climbed over bodies and wreckage to find Turlock.

He was unconscious, limp, covered with dirt. Billy gathered him up and carried him to a clear place to lay him down. In the first light of approaching dawn he turned the bearded head, and gritted his teeth. The cannon blast had burned the hair from the right side of his head, along with his beard, eyelashes, and eyebrows. A trickle of blood from his ear stained his neck. His face was blistered and pitted by burning gunpowder. Billy pressed his fingers under the jaw and felt the slow, irregular pulse.

At that moment a great shout came from the south. The French had taken Redoubt Number Nine.

A hand touched Billy’s shoulder, and Captain Deevers knelt beside him. “Yours?”

Billy nodded.

“Dead?”

“No.”

“I’ll get help.” Before he rose, Deevers looked Billy in the face. “I never saw anything like it—the way you threw that cannon and those men. We took the redoubt.”

Billy nodded. “Get help. I’m staying with Turlock.”

Deevers gave orders, and a man broke into a run, back toward the American hospital near Lafayette’s headquarters. Billy carefully lifted the still Turlock and carried him out the back of the redoubt, down the incline, and turned to walk south, toward the road leading to the American hospital. The messenger came to meet him with two doctors, and they helped carry Turlock back to the hospital, where they began the work of saving what they could. Billy sat nearby, refusing to leave.

The sun was half-risen when Cornwallis understood what had happened. The fall of Redoubts Nine and Ten had opened his left flank to the Americans. In desperation he cast about for a remedy, and in that strange world where desperate minds conceive things that are impossible, concluded he must cross the York River that night, fight through the Americans who had driven Tarleton away, and lead his men north to New York in quick, forced marches.

He issued his orders to disbelieving officers.

By four o’clock in the muggy afternoon, clouds were forming to the west, over the Chesapeake. By six o’clock the world was locked in thick, gray clouds and dead air. By eight o’clock the first winds began, and the first giant raindrops came slanting. By midnight, with Cornwallis’s troops in longboats, laboring to cross the river, the wind was a shrieking demon, whipping the river into ten-foot crests beneath sheets of rain. Cornwallis could do nothing else but call his men back.

The following morning, the French and Americans once more opened up with their heavy guns, an unending, fearsome cannonade. There was no answering British fire. They had no more ammunition.

The siege had worked perfectly.

At noon a British drummer boy appeared on a parapet and beat out the signal for a parley. He could not be heard in the thunder of the guns, but he could be seen. Washington ordered a cease-fire and waited. A British officer advanced toward the American lines, and an American ran out to blindfold him and lead him to Washington’s headquarters.

The red-coated officer handed Washington a document and stood at rigid attention, waiting while Washington studied Cornwallis’s proposed terms for a surrender.

A twenty-four-hour armistice, with the condition that what remained of Cornwallis’s army be paroled back to England.

Washington shook his head and took quill and ink to write out his response. A two-hour armistice, and every man under Cornwallis’s command would be taken and held in America as a prisoner of war. Nothing less.

The officer accepted the document, was escorted back to no-man’s-land, and released. Forty minutes later he again appeared and was once more blindfolded to be led to Washington.

Terms accepted. The formalities of surrender would occur the morning of October 19, 1781.

The morning broke clear and peaceful. The French in their immaculate white uniforms with the gold trim lined the road from the town to the field selected for the site of the surrender, directly in front of the headquarters of General von Steuben. Behind the French, dressed in their homespun and their buckskin breeches and hunting shirts, stood the Americans, waiting.

A quarter-mile from the town, Caleb was among those relieved of duty from Gloucester to watch the surrender. Six hundred yards away stood Billy, with Turlock beside him, head and eyes wrapped in bandages. He could not see and could hear only faintly, but he was there, clutching Billy’s arm, waiting. The doctors had told him he would recover most of his hearing, and full sight in his left eye, partial in his right. His face would heal, but show burn and powder scarring. Wounds notwithstanding, the tough little sergeant would not miss the surrender.

Eli remained with Lafayette’s command as ordered, peering up and down the road to catch a glimpse of Billy. Then he relaxed. He’s here, and I’ll find him. I’ll find him.

Near the field where the surrender was to take place, Matthew stood beside Admiral de Grasse, erect, searching for Billy or Caleb. Dead or alive? A peace settled over him. They’re alive, and I’ll find them. There’ll be time after this is over.

From the north came the faint sounds of a British marching band, and the French and Americans became silent, heads turned, straining to see the redcoats marching. They came with eyes straight ahead, faces set, some in tears, refusing to look at the hated French. The sounds of the band grew louder, with the noise of eleven thousand marching boots matching the cadence.

They came to the field for the surrender, and General Washington rode in on a magnificent bay horse. He dismounted and waited for the British commander to deliver his sword, the symbolic surrendering of his command.

General Cornwallis was not to be found. A General O’Hara stepped forward with Cornwallis’s sword and marched to General Rochambeau, mistakenly thinking him to be Washington.

Rochambeau bowed slightly and gestured to Washington, a magnanimous gesture of a great French officer.

O’Hara nodded his embarrassment and approached Washington, sword held forward in both his hands.

“Sir, I act under orders of General Cornwallis, who is too ill to attend. I herewith surrender his sword and his command.”

Protocol would not allow Washington to accept the sword from other than the British commander, General Cornwallis. He turned and gestured to General Benjamin Lincoln, standing to his right. The surprised Lincoln strode forth to accept the sword. O’Hara stepped back, turned on his heel, and returned to his place.

Then the time-honored laying down of the arms began. The band struck up their tune once again, and the first ranks of the British regulars advanced onto the field, to the far end, and each laid down his musket and bayonet and cartridges. Some burst into tears, and smashed the hammers before leaving their arms. The other ranks followed, one at a time, and the stacks of weapons grew. Drummers set their drums in the grass, and some stomped out the drumheads, determined that no American nor Frenchman would ever play the British drums.

The band continued their mournful tune as the laying down of the arms proceeded. The piles of weapons grew ever larger, with the band setting the cadence.

The surrender was nearly finished before the Americans realized the British were not playing their traditional “God Save the King.” Heads turned in question as they listened to the haunting air of an old English ballad, and suddenly it came to both the French and the Americans. They were playing “The World Turned Upside Down!”

If ponies rode men, and if grass ate the cows,

And cats should be chased into holes by the mouse,

If summer were spring, and the other way ’round,

Then all the world would be turned upside down.

Their crimson tunics bright in the late afternoon sun of 19 October 1781, the last of the British regulars laid down their arms and marched away to the designated quarters where they were to be held prisoners of war.

For a time, the Americans and the French stood quietly at the side of the road, awed, humbled by an unexpected spirit that settled upon them like a great, unseen presence. They sensed that somehow what had been done at Yorktown would change the history of the world. The British would not rise from this defeat. Nor did they question in their souls the source of the impossible conclusion. When they had done all they could, when victory hung in the balance, they knew what power had brought the midnight tempest that stopped the British from crossing the York River to Gloucester, to escape. Their six long years of suffering, of sacrifice, of fighting for their liberty when there was only blackness, were over.

They were free.

Notes

The defeat of the British, including their naval forces, at Yorktown effectively ended the Revolutionary War in favor of the Americans. Oddly, the pivotal battle was fought on and near the Chesapeake Bay, between the French and the British fleets. The Americans had no navy. The British were driven off, leaving General Cornwallis without means of an escape, setting him up for his ultimate defeat by the joint efforts of the French under General Rochambeau and the Americans under General Washington. Washington did whip off his hat and dance a jig at the arrival of Rochambeau, which nearly frightened his officers. Later, Admiral de Grasse did casually call him “Mon petit general,” which Washington accepted.

Regarding the battle on the Chesapeake, all ships named herein are real ships, save for the Swallow. The fatal error of Admiral Graves in allowing the French to sail out of the York River without trapping them is as herein described, as is the ensuing battle on the open sea. The battle formations, the errors by the British in their signal system, and the ships identified as damaged, are accurate, including the fact that Admiral Graves blew up the Terrible because of damage too severe to keep her afloat. The abandoning of General Cornwallis by Admiral Graves occurred as herein described, including the messages between Cornwallis and Clinton, quoted almost verbatim.

The descriptions of Yorktown and Gloucester and the positioning of the British forces and their defenses, and the American and French forces and their breastworks as they proceeded with their siege are accurate. General Washington did send General de Choisy across the river to attack the British under Banastre Tarleton at Gloucester, and de Choisy succeeded in driving Tarleton away for the balance of the siege. Siege warfare, with its trenches and unending cannonade is accurately portrayed, with the circle of guns constantly being moved into new trenches, ever closer to the enemy. General Cornwallis did withdraw his second line of defense back to the first line, in the belief that General Clinton had sent adequate relief, which was a fatal mistake.

The surrender of the British is accurately described, including the mistake made by the British General O’Hara in thinking Rochambeau was Washington. The symbolic laying down of the arms in the field was the accepted process of surrender, as described herein, and as the British did so, their band was playing the British ballad, “The World Turned Upside Down,” suitable to their view that it was beyond comprehension that they had lost the last, crucial battle. For them, the world was upside down.

For the reader’s interest, following the surrender, the Americans and French quickly loaded their forces onto the ships and evacuated. The British ships sent by Clinton arrived about one week later to find an abandoned Yorktown (Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 632–58; Lumpkin, From Savannah to Yorktown, pp. 222–45; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 376–83; Freeman, Washington, pp. 462–92, see especially the excellent illustrations facing pages 471 and 481).