CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: The World Turned Upside Down
By the end of August, the Guadeloupe had sailed north from Yorktown with dispatches detailing their situation from Cornwallis. The Lord General was anxiously awaiting word from Sir Henry Clinton as to his plans. He had made clear to his officers that he hoped that Sir Henry would be sending reinforcements, along with a squadron of the Royal Navy to secure their defenses. In the meantime, Tavington was delighted to receive a new batch of letters from Charlestown.
Charlestown, August 10, 1781
My dearest William,
We are all well, my dearest, and we all pray for your health and safety.
Life goes on here in Charlestown, despite the war at our gates. My pupils are sweet girls, and shirk their lessons no more than other girls their age. Amelia and Julia are doing quite well, and are particularly enjoying the drawing lessons provided by the master Mrs. Rutherford engaged. It is a pity my father never wished to instruct them, for Amelia, especially, has a real talent.
Perhaps you know that Lord Rawdon fell ill, and was compelled by his bad health to return to England. We all regretted his departure, but we were introduced to the commander of the Charlestown garrison, Colonel Balfour, a pleasant and serious Scotsman. There was a ball that I am sure Amelia will describe in every detail to you. I too felt it was an agreeable diversion. I was so happy to see Amelia enjoying herself so thoroughly. I suppose I must accept that she is well and truly out now. After being her deputy mother for most of her life, it seems very strange to me.
At any rate—the ball completely delighted her. An invitation for Mr. McKay was contrived, and they would have partnered one another for every dance, had I not prevented such an impropriety. I remembered my own first ball, which my parents hosted for me at Arcadia, the summer I returned from school at the age of seventeen, and I was glad that Amelia's experience was so much happier.
I know you must think it very odd for a woman to claim that she has never truly enjoyed herself at a ball, my love, but so it is. At that first ball there was not one partner there whose company gave me real pleasure. They were all too young, too old, or too common. I remember that I began the evening in great hopes; which in the course of the evening turned into a misery of boredom, an overwhelming desire to go to my bed, and a sad feeling of being very much alone. My subsequent experiences were never as bad, no longer having any great expectations.
I will say that the ball on the 7th was the best I have attended, not only because of Amelia's enjoyment, but because there were so many intelligent and well-bred people with whom to converse. Also—I shall tell you, but you may think me quite mad—I played a little secret game, pretending that you were there. When I was not conversing, I would imagine you, entering the ballroom, with that rather superior expression you sometimes assume. You know the one I mean, my dearest. Then your eyes would fall on me, and you would give me the sweet smile which is my very own. I further imagined you coming to sit beside me, and the impression was so strong that I was quite startled when old Mrs. Claverhouse dropped into your chair instead, in a cloud of powder and fawn-coloured satin. The contrast between the lady's plump, rouged cheeks and your own dear face was so disconcerting that I hardly know what I said to her.
Yes, my love, I did dance. I danced with Colonel Balfour, with some old acquaintances, and even with Mr. McKay, who, though he might have been prevented from dancing every dance with Amelia, could not be prevented from speaking of her incessantly. The poor boy is quite besotted. I understand your views, but really, seeing them dancing together, dressed in their best, they looked more than ever like Dresden figurines.
Mr. McKay is completely recovered, even to the extent of participating with the Legion infantry in the relief of Fort Ninety-Six back in June. I know you will be pleased. He is occasionally regretful about leaving the Dragoons, and once again asked me to convey his respects to you, but I believe he finds solace in the company he keeps in Charlestown.
How I wish you could be here with me right now. I feel the lack of you every moment. I fear I was sadly spoiled having you with me at my Aunt's house for all those weeks. It seemed that just as I no longer needed to grieve over your suffering, you were well and in the saddle, bidding us adieu. Always remember that I am truly and only yours, and that I long for the day I can be yours even more completely.
You should receive this letter by the end of the month, surely. My birthday is August 29th. On the night of the 29th, at nine o'clock, look for the star Vega, in the constellation Lyra. I shall be looking at it then as well, and shall be thinking of you.
Your loving
Elizabeth
The 29h was the day after tomorrow. It was a charming idea for a tryst. He remembered their first evening together when they had looked at the stars. He laughed. My superior expression, indeed. He opened Amelia's letter.
Charlestown, August 10, 1781
Dearest Colonel Tavington,
I hope you are quite well, for we are. Surely Elizabeth wrote you about the marvelous ball we attended on the 7th. We needed only your presence to make the evening quite perfect. I am sure that no girl ever attended a more wonderful ball—not Cinderella, not Princess Briar Rose—not even the King's own daughters!
I must tell you how beautiful Lilabet looked. She did not really want to go, but she felt she must for my sake. She was actually going to wear her black silk! Can you imagine? However, I asked her if she wanted people to pity you or envy you. She took my point, and made herself quite lovely in your honour. Everyone said how well she looked. For myself, I think she looked a little sad sometimes, and now and then, I saw her sitting quietly, gazing quite oddly off into empty space, but then she would remember to make an effort. Mr. McKay said such kind things about her. I told him we would be writing you, and he said to send his respects to you and to all his old comrades. I know he misses the Dragoons very much.
Mr. McKay thinks the situation in South Carolina is very bad. Except for Charlestown and a few garrisons, the whole of the colony has been abandoned to the rebels. People come to the city every day with the most frightful stories. I must tell you that as things grow worse, there is an increasing fear that England will desert us. Many are leaving: for the Bahamas, for the West Indies, and for England even. I often think of Aunt Sarah Jane Minerva wondering where we shall all be next Christmas, and sometimes I am very much afraid.
Mr. McKay says I must not give in to my fear. I know he is right about this, as about so many other things.
I am studying drawing, and am making portraits of everyone. They are not very good, but the drawing-master says I am improving. Mrs. Rutherford was scandalised that Lilabet allowed me to read Candide by Voltaire. Some of the book is indeed very cynical and shocking, but I was struck at the end at the talk of "cultivating one's garden." I spoke to Mr. McKay of it, and we both remembered last Christmas, and you speaking of the day you and Lilabet would plan a garden together. Such thoughts seem very sweet and far away, but I trust we shall all cultivate our gardens one day soon in peace.
I remain, sir, your obedient servant.
Amelia Wilde
Tavington smiled at the quote from Voltaire. Someday we shall all be together, and I shall tell them about Thomas Jefferson's gardens. He longed to see his Wilde girls. If Sir Henry did not come soon, perhaps the Lord General would consider a retreat into South Carolina. He would like nothing better than to face some of his old enemies there again.
He turned to Julia's letter. Where did she find pink sealing wax?
Charlestown, August 10, 1781
Dearest Colonel Tavington,
I hope you are well. Lilabet and I are all right. Amelia is so, so, happy all the time. It is very wearing. I expect they told you about that ball. I couldn't go, of course, because I am too young. I know that sometimes children go to balls, but Lilabet said this was not one of the times. Anyway, I stayed at the school and read Moll Flanders while they were away. So there!
You never saw such a to-do as that ball caused. First, Lilabet and Amelia had a big discussion about what Lilabet would wear. I agreed with Amelia that Lilabet should not dress like a grandmother. So she wore her pretty green gown, and she wore a wonderful petticoat embroidered with flowers that she has been working on for at least these three ages. She pinned your cameo to the front of her gown, and she wore Aunt's pearls, and her own pearl earrings. And then, when we helped dress her hair, we arranged some of Mamma's pearls there too, and they looked so pretty in her dark hair. She was beautiful, and I was proud she was my sister.
Amelia looked very nice too, but I was sick of all the commotion. She wore her new blue gown. You probably don't care about ladies' gowns, but I can tell you they are very important to ladies. Amelia already had her pretty rose gown, but she always hated it. I'll wager you did not know that. She hates pink, but I like it. When it was made, Aunt made her wear the rose colour because it would look pretty next to Lilabet's, but a blue gown would clash.
Do you remember that ring of Charles Crawford's? The one Lilabet threw at him the night he came to rob us? Well, right after we arrived here, we went and we sold that ring, as Lilabet said we would. And then we divided the money, just like pirates with treasure. We each got a third, and Lilabet said we could buy whatever we liked. Well, Lilabet bought a lot of muslin and other stuff to make sheets and dull things like that. I said it was dull anyway, but Lilabet laughed, and said they wouldn't be dull when she was finished with them, and they wouldn't be dull when they were in the house you and she would keep together. I suppose one must have sheets. We have made a lot of them, anyway. I guess we have made enough sheets for the whole British Legion, and Lord Cornwallis, too.
I bought drawing pencils and lots of crayons, and my own special sealing wax, and a nice writing desk of my very own. It is the kind that can be unfolded and set on a table or on my lap. It is very smooth and shiny and it has a lock and a key. I carry the key in my pocket all the time, and no one can see what I keep in my desk. It is important to respect the privacy of others.
Melly bought about a ton of blue satin with her share. I admit it is a very pretty blue, like the sky when it is just starting to get dark. Lilabet agrees that blue is Melly's colour. Well, when she got the satin home, she threw the pink gown out of her clothes press and said that no one was going to make her wear pink ever again. It's an ill wind that blows nobody good, as they say. Lilabet is making that dress over for me, and I expect I shall look very pretty. I told Lilabet so, but she told me that nobody likes a vain little girl.
Anyway, we made that blue gown for Amelia and it was very nice. And she wore her new pearl earrings from Aunt, and she wore a double ruffle of lace around her neck. That was the thing I liked best. The DeLanceys came and got them and took them to the ball. Melly stayed with Lilabet that night when they got back, so Melly wouldn't disturb me. It was quite bad enough the next day listening to her go on and on and on about how wonderful it all was, but it was a change from repeating everything that David McKay boy says. But then she started doing that too, because he had been there.
I remember all about that day, because that Judge DeLancey came to call that afternoon, and he and Lilabet had a terrible quarrel in the parlour. He wanted her to go with him to the Bahamas. He said the war was lost and it was time to consider our future. I got frightened listening to him, and Melly told me not to listen, but then she listened too. In the end he started saying horrid things about you and that you were never coming back anyway. Lilabet told him he would have to leave, and to say goodbye to his mother and sister. He was so angry that he didn't even bow when he left. Lilabet went up to her room and wouldn't come out for hours.
I was glad to hear that he and his family left the next day. By the time you read this, they will be in Nassau. I am sorry about Mrs. DeLancey, because I liked her. I wouldn't have minded if she had stayed with us.
Anyway, that is the history of the ball. I am not sure now I want to go to balls, as they get people so stirred up.
Your obedient servant,
Julia Wilde
So that was that. He need not worry about his rival DeLancey. He wondered what he would have done in the fellow's place. Would he leave a woman he professed to love in danger? He hoped not, though rescuing her might have meant carrying Elizabeth bodily onto a waiting ship, while recommending to her sisters that they come along if they wished to see her again. It was an amusing picture, and he would tease her about it someday. Still, he was moved. Elizabeth had shown the highest loyalty to him, and had permanently burnt her bridges with a man who had far more to offer than himself.
Win or lose, where would they go? He had no desire or reason to return to England. There was nothing for him there. They might buy or rent a property, but their money would not go as far in England as it would in a colony, and everyone they met would know about his family's disgrace. He had already made it clear that he would not go south to heat and fever. What did that leave? If we win, some northern colony. He had spent considerable time in New York and New Jersey. There were some very nice places there. Or --who could say? Perhaps he might end up in Ohio after all. Any land grant would probably be on the frontier. They might be able to do something with the Kentucky property if the Lord General's campaign in Virginia were thoroughly victorious.
If we do not win—probably some place in Canada, I should think. He had never been to Canada, and knew little about it.
It was all such a tangle: a knot of ifs and buts and maybes. His mind circled endlessly around the opposing possibilities of winning or losing. It was pointless to keep worrying about it. They would all simply have to live through the war, and he could sort it out later.
Strephon had already made it clear that he was going wherever his employer went, whether Tavington liked it or not. His new manservant had proved a fortunate find. Ironically, though he had found employment that could excuse him from it, Strephon still joined in the unceasing work on the fortifications, along with the other freedmen who had attached themselves to the army. The engineers needed all the help they could get; for in addition to the defenses, plans for the projected naval base were in the works. Sir Henry and the fleet should appear any day now.
On the night of the 29th, he checked his watch. His mother smiled lovingly at him, obviously approving of his plans for the evening. He left his lodgings, and was soon past the bustle of the camp. He stood on the banks of the York River. Vega was almost directly above him. Somewhere, far to the south, Elizabeth was looking up at the sky and thinking of him. Next year, perhaps, they would celebrate her birthday together. He knew he would never forget the date.
As it happened, there were other reasons to make the day memorable. For on the following day, the 30th, sails appeared in the Chesapeake. They were not, however, Sir Henry and the Royal Navy. They were the French, and Cornwallis and his little army were trapped.
How could it come to this? Not for many years would the sorry tale of laziness and incompetence, of personal vanity and suspicious rivalry be thoroughly compassed. The loyal colonists could not be aware of the very different priorities at home in England, where the disproportionate power of the wealthy sugar planters in the West Indies saw to it that the protection of their property and interests was paramount.
Tavington only saw his world contracting to Yorktown and the elaborate defenses encircling it; and to the little outpost on Gloucester Point, across the river, from whence he often led the Dragoons on foraging expeditions.
How could they escape the tightening noose? On the first arrival of the French, he had suggested to the Lord General that they attempt a breakthrough of the French lines before more of the enemies' troops could arrive. Cornwallis considered it, and then rejected it as too rash and too unlikely to succeed. Day by day, their enemies multiplied. Finally, on September 30, Cornwallis ordered the outer works abandoned; and the troops were pulled back to the inner defenses of Yorktown. There was still hope that Sir Henry and his relief force would appear any day. Word had been dispatched by express riders of the army's desperate predicament. Surely some had gotten though.
They still could cross the river, and a few ships of the Royal Nay were blockaded in with them. Using these, the Legion could be ferried back and forth as necessary.
Food was getting scarce. Their raids into the Gloucester peninsula were becoming more and more fraught with danger, as it became necessary to go farther and farther to find adequate supplies for the army.
At daybreak on October 2nd, Tavington led the Legion out of the outpost at Gloucester Point, accompanied by part of the 17th foot and some dragoons from the Queen's Rangers. They had to go many miles, but eventually found barns full of corn from the recent harvest. Loading their wagons, they began the slow trek back to the outpost. They had been lucky to find so much, but it would have to last for awhile.
"Militia!" called out Wilkins. Tavington turned in the saddle. Some mounted rebels were closing in behind them.
"Get those wagons moving!" shouted Tavington. "Dragoons to the rear!" They must screen the wagons, and make sure the supplies made it to their lines. He ordered his men to wait for the enemy at the bend of a road, hidden behind enough cover to conceal their position. The rebels came on, and were shocked to find themselves suddenly facing cavalry. Some fled. A few dallied too long and were cut down. Tavington, a little farther away, bagged two of them with his pistols. The wagons were nearly to the woods in front of Gloucester. The rebels dispatched, Tavington thought it best to reconnoitre, and sent Wilkins and a part of his troop to observe the rear.
He was carefully reloading his pistols, when Wilkins came racing back.
"Colonel! The enemy is approaching in force!"
Didn't they understand us the first time? Tavington smiled grimly, and asked Wilkins, "More militia?"
"No sir! I think they're the French!" Tavington pulled out his telescope at once, and could see a cloud of dust, moving rapidly in their direction. A moment later, he could make out a large body of horsemen---who indeed were garbed in the sky blue of the French.
"Captain Wilkins, you and your troop will stay with me! Hovenden! Take the rest of the men to the woods and face about!" He leaned toward Wilkins, "We shall have a look at the enemy and see what we make of them. We must delay them long enough for the wagons to reach the outpost. If necessary, we'll let them push us back slowly toward the balance of our men in the woods."
As the French came on, Tavington could see that some of them were lancers. I've never fought a lancer before. Tavington thought quickly about the kind of tactics needed to fight a man armed with an eight-foot spear. It was a formidable weapon, but if one could get past the point of the lance, and in close, the lancer would be nearly helpless. Pistols to be reserved in case of emergency, he decided.
Spurring Aeolus forward, he led the troop against the approaching riders. The French, bright as birds of paradise in their sky blue and yellow, were easy targets. So they must think us, Tavington realised. One couldn't have a more colourful battle, at least. The French fought well, but Tavington immediately saw that their horses were far inferior to Aeolus and the Virginia bred mounts of the Legion. The Green Dragoons were in among them, their horses quicker, stronger, and not worn out from a long ocean voyage.
Tavington found himself pursued by a lancer, but he pulled Aeolus about and was past the lance point and within sabre's reach of the unlucky Frenchman in a moment. Tavington's blade slashed the man across the chest, and his enemy gushed blood, slid from the saddle, and was dragged a few yards under the hooves of the milling horses.
Further ahead, he saw a splendidly accoutered hussar, his saddle adorned with a leopardskin. Could it be the Duc du Lauzun himself? The Frenchman looked his way. A fierce, dark, intelligent face, intent on combat. This was a man worth fighting, and Tavington hacked his way toward him. The noisy, cursing press around him thinned a moment. His opponent paused, and gave a hint of a nod. Tavington smiled, and felt the grim joy of battle settle down around him, ready to carry him away. Lifting his sword, Tavington urged Aeolus to greater speed.
He was blindsided by a rearing horse, wounded and screaming in pain. Aeolus rocked with the collision. Tavington was literally kicked off his mount, landing off to the left. He heard his men's shouts of alarm at seeing him unhorsed. A lancer, seeing him down, turned his horse and rushed at him, lance pointed full at Tavington.
An extraordinary memory flashed before him. Benjamin Martin, his flag held like a lance, awaiting Tavington's charge. Now the roles were reversed. It was he, unhorsed, whom the lancer thought easy prey. Gripping his sword with both hands, Tavington waited. Avoid the point, and then slash the bastard out of the saddle.
The Frenchman was only feet away. Tavington twisted, and the point missed him by a handsbreath. Reflexively, he swung his sword at the passing horseman. A splash of blood, a scream passed him by. Aeolus was near, waiting for him. He started to make a dash for his mount, when he heard Wilkins' shout.
"Colonel! Behind you!"
Tavington whirled. Almost upon him was another lancer who had moved in unnoticed. Tavington threw himself to the side, and Wilkins' big horse was immediately between him and the Frenchman. Stumbling, and half-blinded by the dust, Tavington looked again for his mount. Wilkins had Aeolus' reins, and was holding them out for Tavington, when the lancer threw his weapon, transfixing the captain through the chest.
Wilkins was a big man, and not even the lance's impact could dislodge him from his mount. Horrified, Tavington vaulted into Aeolus' saddle to support him. The Frenchman galloped up, reaching for the shaft of his weapon. Instantly, Tavington drew a pistol and shot the man in the face.
He looked for help, and saw to his dismay that his concealed troops in the woods had broken cover and were running toward him in complete disorder. More French, including some infantry, were approaching. A band of Wilkins' dragoons closed in around their colonel and their captain, sheltering them from direct assault.
Wilkins was conscious, but in shock, blood trickling from his mouth. Tavington gripped his shoulder with one hand, and gave the lance a hard pull with the other. The point came free with a gush of blood. Wilkins swayed in the saddle. Tavington tossed the lance to the ground in disgust.
There was no time to waste. Tavington saw Wilkins' senior lieutenant, Duncan Monroe.
"Get him back to the surgeons! Move!" Monroe slid from his own saddle directly behind Wilkins, holding the captain up. He took the reins, and set off at full tilt toward Gloucester Point. Tavington tried to organise the chaos threatening them all.
"Retreat!" Waving at them all, he pulled them back as quickly as he could. After about three hundred yards, he saw a thicket to the right. He ordered some of the infantry into it, and to fire a volley at the pursuing French cavalry. Rallying the Dragoons, he charged the hussars.
It worked. The French cavalry pulled back behind their oncoming infantry. Tavington got the Dragoons to cover, while the infantries exchanged fire.
At least they had achieved their purpose. By now the wagons have certainly arrived at the outpost. Tavington gathered his troops, and herded them carefully back to safety.
Once back at Gloucester Point, Tavington raced to the surgeon's tent, and dismounted. He looked for Wilkins, but instead saw Monroe, sitting on a campstool nearby. Monroe glanced up and came over. Sick at heart, Tavington could read the lieutenant's expression before he uttered a word.
"He's dead, then?"
Monroe was covered in blood, and plainly exhausted. He looked at the ground, and shuffled the toe of a big boot idly in the dust before answering.
"Dead before we got here, sir. I got to the surgeons, and they helped me get him down from the horse, but he must have died during the ride back."
Tavington could not respond for a moment. Somehow, if it came to the worst, he had pictured being at Wilkins' side; comforting him and assuring him of his respect and gratitude. It was not right, it was not right that Cousin James was dead and that Tavington had said nothing.
Monroe offered quietly, "He could feel me holding him up, sir. He wasn't alone."
Tavington found his voice. "Where is he?"
"They laid him out in back, sir. The wounded don't like a dead man lying in the hospital tent, you know."
"Yes."
"I took the liberty of removing the captain's valuables from his person, Colonel. You were the closest he had to kin, so I thought you were the one to have them." Monroe reached into his waistcoat pockets, and handed Tavington a gold watch, a man's signet ring, and some money. Tavington took them, stared at them blankly a moment, and then pocketed them himself.
"Thank you, Monroe."
The lieutenant continued, "We thought we'd ferry him back this evening for the burial, along with the load of provisions. His troop would like to be present, sir."
"Of course." He cleared his throat. "See to it. You are in command of the troop for now. I---I am going to…. I shall pay my respects."
"Sir."
Tavington made his way through the tent to the shade behind it. The long shape under the coarse blanket could be no one else. The casualties had been surprisingly light—only five others of their men killed, he gathered. He sat down on the ground by Wilkins and gently uncovered his face. Wilkins appeared asleep: for someone, probably the compassionate Monroe, had already closed his eyes. Tavington raised the blanket higher, exposing the appalling wound. It had been madness on his part to imagine anyone could survive it.
He remembered Wilkins at the ball at Charleston, grinning with delight; giving the loyal toast at the dinner after Camden; lending his support to acts he obviously found personally painful and horrifying; leaning over him like a hulking guardian angel at Cowpens; at Christmas, lit by the golden light of candles; in a moment of peace and good-fellowship, raising his glass to him in a strange dining parlour in North Carolina. So human, so full of vitality, and now, one of the innumerable losses of the war. The flies were beginning to buzz around the dead man, and Tavington quietly replaced the blanket.
Wilkins' big right hand was flung out. The ring finger was bruised. Monroe must have done that, getting the ring off for me. Tavington recalled that the last act of that hand had been to hold out Tavington's reins to him. Tavington lifted the hand and kissed the battered knuckles. "My dear cousin James."
Their destruction was certain, if they remained; but they could not get out. Or could they? Tavington had thought hard for days, searching for a plan to lay before the Lord General, to cheat the rebels and their allies of their victory. He knew he was not alone. He knew that Cornwallis was literally sick from devising and discarding ways to escape the imminent disaster. Sir Henry had failed them: their salvation must be of their own contriving.
Meanwhile, they had been subjected to a massive and savage bombardment. The house Cornwallis had used as headquarters had been an easy target, and was now in ruins. The rebels and the French were creeping forward, their own siegeworks advancing and taking redoubt after redoubt of the British defenses.
That evening, Tavington made his way to the Lord General. He gave his name and was shown in immediately. Cornwallis and O'Hara were there, grimly studying the map and the casualty lists. They looked up as Tavington entered, and Cornwallis nodded.
"Colonel Tavington. You wished to see me?"
"My lord, I have, for some days, been devising a plan that may save us." Cornwallis winced, and O'Hara looked exasperated. Tavington continued, "Hear me out, I pray you, for I feel it might very well do."
O'Hara muttered, "It might very well do for us all indeed." Cornwallis silenced him with a look. O'Hara began again, first with an apology. "I beg your pardon, Colonel, I spoke without thought. I have been urging his lordship to make a sortie against the enemy. We cannot surrender in honour without attempting to defend ourselves."
Tavington nodded gravely. "I agree that a sortie would be appropriate under our circumstances." Both Cornwallis and O'Hara studied him warily. "I believe that a sortie, made the day before, would prove a useful diversionary tactic in concealing our escape."
He had their undivided attention now, and used the map to illustrate.
"The Gloucester Peninsula is not yet fully invested by the enemy. It is true that with the Duc du Lauzun's cavalry and Brigadier de Choisy's infantry present, the British Legion cannot penetrate inland for foraging expeditions. However, the enemy troops are adequate only to stave off the Legion. They could not resist the full strength of our army."
Cornwallis leaned back in his chair, already grasping the possibilities of the idea. O'Hara frowned, not critically, but reflectively.
He said, "Moving the entire army across the river would be a huge undertaking. It would have to be done at night, and could not be done all at once, with the ships at our disposal."
Tavington had anticipated this. "By my calculations, it would take three trips. It could be done in one night, with luck and good weather. A few units would have to be sacrificed, to keep the fires going and maintain a visible presence. The enemy could not see our activities on the water, for we still hold the points of the river above and below us."
Cornwallis, though pale with his indisposition, was still thinking rapidly. "But what then, Colonel? We cross the river, we assemble the troops, and then we punch through the French lines. I can see that these things may be possible, but we might well have traded one trap for another."
Tavington leaned forward, and spoke rapidly, for this was the part of the plan that most excited him. "We make a run for it! Hear me out! The French fight well, but their horses are no match for ours. Our cavalry will press the French back, and our infantry, accustomed to quick marches under arduous conditions, will be carrying three days of provisions on their backs. We can mount a good portion of the infantry on the spare horses we have captured and on the horses of the quartermaster and the artillery. With a surprise attack, a large portion of the French horses could fall into our hands. It is entirely likely that enough horses would come our way that we could mount a good half of our infantry before we are fifty miles from Gloucester."
Cornwallis and O'Hara were paying close attention. Tavington went on, "The country between the York and Rappahanock Rivers is as rich as any in America, and has not been invaded during the entire course of the war. It abounds with grain, cattle, and horses. The time of year is favourable, for the harvest will be in and waiting for us. Once we get one hundred miles between us and the enemy, we shall be able to determine our own fate: whether to head north for a possible rendezvous with Sir Henry; or to head south, high enough into the country that we can ford all the rivers, and make our way to our fortified places in South Carolina."
Fired with hope, they talked late into the night, working out the details of the plan. Cornwallis decided that the 16th of October would be the date of the sortie, and that the following night would see the escape plan put into action. Accordingly, before dawn on the 16th, Colonel Abercrombie with some 350 men of the Foot Guards and the grenadiers of the 80th Foot broke out of the siegeworks and attacked the enemy artillery batteries that threatened them. Caught off guard, the enemy reeled back for a time, and the British succeeded in spiking seven cannons before the French drove them back behind the British lines.
An uneasy silence settled as darkness fell. At 11 p.m., Tavington, on the Gloucester side of the river, sent over all the ships and boats at their disposal. Cornwallis, though sick with a bout of his recurrent malaria, was waiting to send over the first wave of the troops, 1000 men of the Guards and light Infantry. The process was painfully slow, but shortly before 1a.m. they were disembarking at the outpost on Gloucester point. The wind was picking up.
Tavington felt the first drops of cold rain with a growing despair. "This isn't over!" he shouted at the sky. His subordinates stared at him anxiously. First tentatively, then with mounting violence, the storm progressed. The ships did not dare put out in the wild winds. The entire British Army watched the heavens as their last hope expired.
The storm passed before dawn. Word arrived from the Lord General to send back those troops that had arrived at the outpost. Depressed and weary, they re-embarked for the inevitable outcome.
The Lord General, still too ill to leave his quarters, did not attend the surrender. Thinking it better to bear the sarcasm of the Americans than to fall on his face before them, he sent O'Hara as his representative. The British officers were allowed to keep their arms: the enlisted men, under the terms of surrender, were made to relinquish theirs. One by one, as the drums rolled, and the band played a melancholy dirge, they laid down their weapons. Some of the men were shedding tears, and hurled their weapons down angrily.
"Stop that at once!" ordered O'Hara. "You are British soldiers, and you will conduct yourselves as such; not as children!"
Tavington, sitting silently on Aeolus, knew that a page of his life had turned forever. His glance swept the field, taking in the proud but compassionate gaze of the French, the surprisingly restrained demeanour of the rebels, and the stalwart dignity of his own men.
Resolutely, the British turned their eyes toward the white and gold standards of France, ignoring the rebel colours; and endured the ceremonies of defeat, under the bright, impartial sun.
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Author's notes: "On the day [October 19, 1781] that the surrender was signed, Admiral Graves and Sir Henry Clinton, with seven thousand men aboard their fleet, sailed at last…. Five days later they reached the mouth of Chesapeake Bay, where they encountered a small boat with a white man and two blacks, who brought them the news from Yorktown. The ships turned round and sailed away north again, back to New York." From Red Coats and Rebels, by Christopher Hibbert. My other major sources for this part of the story were Yorktown 1781, by Brendan Morrissey (very useful diagrams of the battles), and of course, Tarleton's own Campaigns.
The general conduct of the Royal Navy throughout the Revolution shows them at far from their best. Admiral Graves was lazy and incompetent, and the rivalry between Graves and his subordinates was as childish and harmful as that between Clinton and Cornwallis. However, in fairness, the Navy was being given a tall order, since they had to defend all the British held cities, fight the French and American ships in Colonial waters—and above all, protect the British West Indies. Men like Elizabeth's Uncle Ned Everleigh, wealthy from their vast and valuable sugar plantations, had great influence in England, and diverted much of the Royal Navy's resources from the conflict in the thirteen colonies.
Sir Henry Clinton, an admirable soldier in many ways, behaved with great irresolution in the months prior to the Yorktown surrender. Apparently torn between genuine prudence and professional jealousy of Cornwallis, he gave conflicting orders, and hesitated to send help even when the desperate situation of Cornwallis and his men was made clear to him. Again, in fairness, some his delay in setting out was due to the Royal Navy's delay in repairing the needed ships.
The chapter title is from a popular song of the time, reported (erroneously) to have been played by the British bandsmen during the surrender.
It has sometimes been said that the period from the start of the War of the Spanish Succession in 1701 to the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 constituted a second Hundred Years' War between Great Britain and France. The American Revolution is the one episode of this war that the French won. It is important to remember, even (or perhaps especially) for those of us who are Americans, that the Revolution was looked upon by the world at large as part of a much greater struggle; and also, that without the help and cooperation of our foreign allies, the Colonies would never have achieved independence. History lesson over. Now let's try to apply it to the 21st century.
Thank you to my wonderful reviewers: Zubeneschamali, Slytherin Dragoon, Foodie, Anchovyeater1, Kontara, ladymarytavington, Kathrinetavington, and Carmen Sandiego.. I still have a few chapters to go, and your support and input mean a great deal.