Victory at Yorktown: A Novel Page 3

  He heard the deadly sound of a musket being cocked.

  “Don’t you lobsterbacks move another damn inch!”

  Sergeant O’Toole, by his side, seemed close to panic.

  “Don’t move,” Allen hissed.

  He looked over his left shoulder to where the sound had come from. A soldier wearing the uniform of the Connecticut militia stepped out from behind a tree. He was thin and lanky, in a dirty and threadbare uniform. Three more came out behind him, led by a sergeant, all of them with muskets leveled.

  They had ridden straight into the Rebels’ picket line and had not even realized it.

  Allen slowly raised his hands, and nodded to the white flag O’Toole was holding.

  “We are under a flag of truce, sergeant. You could see our approach was in the open.”

  The sergeant just gazed at him. Why was it that all these Rebels chewed tobacco, a disgusting habit? The sergeant looked straight at him as he expelled a stream of dark spittle, striking the hoof of his mount.

  “A courier came to this place yesterday under a truce flag, to inform your General Washington that I would come today bearing a note from my commander, General Clinton.”

  “I ain’t heard nothin’ of it,” the sergeant drawled. “Now get down slow and easy. A lot of strange things been going on around here the last two weeks. So slow and easy. Make a wrong move and, by God, you are both dead men.”

  “I do like them horses,” declared the first soldier with a grin, musket still aimed directly at Allen. “Bet they’d fetch a half dozen pounds sterling each, no questions asked.”

  Allen carefully dismounted, the sergeant drawing closer.

  “Now let’s see this letter you’re talking about.”

  “Sergeant, I am under orders to deliver it personally to General Washington and to no other.”

  “Look, you bastard, I’m the one with the gun aimed at you, and not the other way around. I suggest you do as I’m telling you.”

  “My orders from my general were clear,” Allen said, trying not to let fear take hold, using his best clipped officer-in-command tone.

  “You ain’t one of ’em,” the sergeant said. “You sound like Jersey or Pennsylvania.”

  Allen nodded.

  “I’m a Loyalist. I was born in Trenton, New Jersey.”

  “We got ourselves a damn Tory no less,” the first soldier announced. “I say, shoot them and take their horses. We can be drunk for a week on what we’d get.”

  “I am carrying a dispatch, under flag of truce from General Clinton to General Washington. You do that and all four of you will be dancing at the end of a rope.”

  “Just like that bastard Andre does tomorrow.”

  With that Allen stiffened, anger showing.

  “Major Andre is an honorable soldier,” he replied sharply.

  “Oh really? That ain’t the way we see it, and we’re gonna snap his neck like a twig for being a spy.” The sergeant cradled his musket and made the gesture of breaking something with both hands, while behind him the private who had first stepped out held one hand up over his head as if clutching a rope, then cocked his head to one side, rolled his eyes, and stuck his tongue out. “Just wish we had that son of a bitch Benedict Arnold doing the rope dance next to him.”

  “You bloody bastards.”

  “What did you just call us?” the sergeant snapped again, training his musket on Allen. At that instant he knew they were, indeed, going to kill him and O’Toole. Easy enough to hide their bodies, take the horses, and sell them later. When inquiries were finally made, most likely days from now, all would shrug their shoulders and say nothing.

  “All of you, stand at ease!”

  The sergeant looked past Allen, stiffened slightly, and sighed. “Damn officer,” he muttered under his breath.

  “You men, uncock your pieces carefully, then shoulder your weapons, now! These two are under a flag of truce.”

  The four reluctantly did as ordered.

  “What command are you?” the officer behind Allen snapped.

  “Second Connecticut militia, Captain Randell’s company.”

  “Clear out of here before I put all of you up on report and have you flogged. I’ll take over for these two. Now clear out!”

  There was a moment of hesitation, the sergeant looking past Allen. He let a squirt of tobacco juice loose, striking Allen’s boots, then turned.

  “Come on,” was all he said to the other three, and they drifted back into the woods.

  Allen could hear the man behind him sigh, then the click of a pistol being uncocked. He turned to face the man who had just saved them and felt as if stricken a visceral blow.

  It was his childhood friend, Peter Wellsley, wearing the uniform of the headquarters company of Washington, the braid of a major on his shoulder. With him were two troopers, mounted, but with pistols still raised and casually pointing in the direction of where the militiamen had retreated. They were taking no chances.

  “My God, Peter,” Allen whispered.

  He could see Peter’s eyes widen in recognition, but there was no exchange, no acknowledgment.

  “I’ve been sent down to meet you,” Peter finally said coolly.

  There was an icy chill to his voice, a distant look to his eyes.

  “Get mounted and let’s get the hell out of here. Men like that can be dangerous when hungry and smelling booty.”

  Allen did as suggested without hesitation. Hell, two minutes ago he had figured himself a dead man.

  Peter and the two troopers set the pace at a sharp canter for a quarter of a mile or so until they passed through another picket line of Continentals. This position was obviously the “official” forward outpost for the Americans, thus the road was barricaded, a company of men guarded the approach, actually well-uniformed for Continentals. Peter slowed long enough to show a slip of paper, a few words with the commander there, a nod to the white flag held by a trembling O’Toole, and a quick exchange of words. Several of the men then moved the barricade so they could pass through.

  Once past, Peter slowed the pace to a walk, said something to his two escorts, who dropped back half a dozen paces, looked over his shoulder, and motioned to Allen to come up by his side.

  The two rode in silence for several minutes. Allen still felt chilled, inwardly a bit shaken by the experience with the first troops he had met. There had, indeed, been murder in their eyes, and if not for Peter’s timely arrival, he knew with utmost certainty he would have been dead by now, stripped, buttons and braid clipped from his uniform along with any identification, the dispatch he carried read, if those men could, indeed, read, then shredded.

  To his right the broad Hudson reflected the afternoon sun. The rising hills on the far shore were a riot of autumn color that should have brightened any man’s day, but he looked at them vacantly, his soul torn and empty.

  His closest friend on the British side, Major John Andre, was scheduled to be hanged tomorrow morning, and his closest friend from before this damn war, now a major like himself, but wearing the uniform of his sworn enemies, was riding by his side.

  It was Peter who broke the silence at last.

  “Your mission is futile, Major van Dorn. General Washington refuses to accept your letter from your general.”

  Startled, Allen looked over at him. His old friend’s features were taut, thin, so unlike the round-faced boy, the “youngster” who would tag along with Allen and his brothers as they went afield. Was it really all that long ago, when they’d venture out to play, to hunt, to snitch apples in the fall, or darn near drown themselves in an old punt boat, fishing on the Delaware when the shad were running in the spring? He wondered if he had aged as much through these last five years.

  “Peter?”

  His friend finally shifted and turned to look straight at him.

  “It is good to see you again.”

  Peter nodded, but did not reply.

  “You saved my life back at Monmouth Court House. I will neve
r forget that kindness and the debt of life I will always owe you,” Allen said.

  “You would have done the same for me, but things change.”

  “Not all things.”

  Peter could not respond for a moment.

  “Allen, if not for Loyalists like you, your side would have given it up years ago and gone home.”

  “I could say the same about your side. The king has offered you fair terms repeatedly.”

  “Fair terms for slavery.”

  “For reunion, for peace.”

  “So the response is to continue to ravage the land in revenge? A wonderful way to convince us to fight on, knowing the treatment we would receive if ever we were to lay down our arms, were defenseless, and threw ourselves on his mercy and that of his hirelings.”

  “Both sides are ravaging the land,” Allen said. “You get the same reports we do out of the South. How the war is being fought there. Farms burned, men hanged in their own front yards, women and children driven out as refugees.”

  “If you were not there it would not be happening,” Peter retorted sharply. “Allen, there’s no sense in arguing that. We’re seven hundred miles away. Neither you nor I have or would take part in such things.

  “Up here, instead, one of our generals is suborned, turns traitor, and tries to sell out our entire army. What your army could not win through honorable warfare, your side now tries to win through bribery and backstabbing.”

  There was no denying the truth of that and Allen fell silent.

  “Were you part of it? Did you know about it?” Peter asked sharply.

  “I am under a flag of truce,” Allen replied a bit defensively. “You know I cannot answer that. Nor would I.”

  Yes, he did know. It was his job to know as the Loyalist officer responsible for intelligence gathering in the region. He had been one of the last to see Andre before he had departed on his fatal mission. He had begged him to show caution, warning that it could be a trap, and to stay in uniform concealed under a cloak in case he was captured. At least then he would have some grounds to argue that he should be treated as a prisoner of war rather than a spy. Andre had smiled, even laughed, patted him on the shoulder and said he would be back in little more than a day, and within the week the war along the Hudson would be all but over.

  There were several minutes of tense silence until Allen finally broke it.

  “My family. They are behind your lines. Have you heard anything about them?”

  Peter seemed to relent slightly.

  “I was home in Trenton early this spring, carrying a dispatch from the general to Congress and stopped over. Your brother is prospering.” He paused. “Of course.”

  “And my parents?”

  “They’re alive, though I doubt they will ever recover from the death of your brother, James.”

  Allen stiffened with that. James had gone with the Continentals at the start of the war, and had died of exposure after the battle for Trenton back in ’76. Allen had been captured in that fight, helped carry his dying brother back when Washington and his men withdrew across the Delaware after their stunning victory, and then helped them to bury James the following day.

  He knew it was Peter’s and James’s comrades who had personally appealed to Washington and convinced the general to have him paroled and exchanged through the lines because of his young brother’s sacrifice.

  “They can’t find the grave. They want to return him to the family plot,” Peter sighed.

  “After this is over, I know where to find him,” Allen whispered. “I marked the spot well, remember I helped to dig his grave alongside you.”

  “It’s all washed away now. Looks like a potter’s field, with several hundred sunken-in holes now. You can’t tell one from the other. Perhaps it’s best he stays with his comrades anyhow. I think he’d prefer that.”

  Allen lowered his head.

  “I still can’t believe you went Tory,” Peter finally sighed, a sharp edge to his voice. Your brother died on our side. We were once friends. You love this land as much as I do. I still cannot believe seeing you in that damn uniform.”

  Allen looked over at him sharply.

  “Yes, I do love this land as much as you do, and I ask you this: If you win, then what? You know history as well as I. Nearly all revolutions end in just replacing one ruler with another, often far worse. The king made mistakes, but was it really all that bad as compared to how you might fare and suffer under another ruler afterward?”

  Peter looked at him sharply.

  “We have General Washington to guide us.”

  Allen shook his head. “Washington may turn into another Cromwell, another Caesar.”

  “Damn, how dare you,” Peter said. “Remember, he gave you your freedom to go back and wear that damn uniform, otherwise you’d be sitting this one out in some prison camp out on the frontier with your Hessian friends.”

  Peter paused for a moment.

  “Remember Garth Williamson, Vincent van Hoek?”

  “Yes. Hell, they used to go exploring with us as kids,” said Allen.

  “They’re dead.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, I thought you might have heard since they died within sight of you. They were taken prisoner at Brandywine then locked up in your damn prison ships in New York. We’ve all heard about those ships. How the bodies are just dumped out a gun port when the tide is going out. Tell me, when the wind is blowing from the east, can you smell the death at your headquarters?”

  Allen bristled at that, but knew there was no defense. More than a few had made appeals to Clinton to abandon the charnel houses of the prison ships, to establish a proper camp on dry land, but he refused, saying it was all that bloody Rebels against the Crown deserved. Word was that nearly four out of five men confined there died within a matter of months, and yes, their bodies were unceremoniously dumped into the river when the tide was running out.

  “It’s this war, this damn war that is doing this to us,” Allen finally offered, “but you and I, Peter. I thought there was no hatred between us.”

  “Live what I’ve lived through for four years while you and your comrades sit fat and happy in the city and maybe you’d understand better. At Morristown last winter, I watched comrades who had served from the beginning, dying by the hundreds from starvation and the cold. Hard to believe, but most of us say it was worse than Valley Forge. Meanwhile you and your Clinton were most likely sitting rosy faced by warm fireplaces, stuffed to bursting, and but a few hundred yards away your prisoners were huddled together without even a blanket and dying in their own filth.”

  “I did not do this,” Allen replied.

  “But the side you fight for did,” Peter snapped.

  “There have been atrocities on both sides. We could argue this all day. That is what war does to all of us. There’ve been reports of our men nailed to trees and scalped.”

  Peter, whose eyes had formed cool narrow slits, widened them slightly and he turned away.

  “Not with my command.”

  “Those four back there were only seconds away from performing the ritual on my sergeant and me. You can’t deny it.”

  Peter sighed and nodded.

  Again, long moments of silence. The road ahead curved up and to the left, following the bank of the Hudson, its surface shimmering with the red and gold reflection of autumn trees lining its banks. A company of troops was marching toward them and they edged to the side of the road. The passing infantry wore relatively new uniforms, hats adorned with sprigs of pine or hemlock, muskets polished to a sheen. No rabble, this. They were regulars, lean and hawk faced, even if some had seen only seventeen summers. Though they maintained marching discipline, nearly everyone looked up at him with a cold eye, muttering comments about “damn lobsterbacks.” These were not the type of men he recalled facing when this war had started. These men looked as tough and seasoned as any British or Hessian regular, even tougher now, in fact, because Peter was right: For two years his army h
ad languished in near luxury in New York City, compared to this army encamped in the rain, mud, heat, and freezing cold of Morristown and now on the banks of the Hudson.

  The company marched on and they resumed their ride, Peter urging his mount up to a gentle canter, Allen following suit.

  “Peter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember Miss Elizabeth Risher?”

  Just saying her name caused Peter’s throat to tighten.

  Peter was silent for a moment remembering her only too well. Then he just nodded, stifling his emotion, not wishing to reveal what he had in fact carried in his heart for years, ever since meeting her long before the war.

  “Her father was a merchant in Philadelphia,” Peter said, trying to act calm. “We’re distant cousins. You must remember when she used to visit us in Trenton before the war. Pretty lass. Why?”

  Allen hesitated, Peter looking over at him.

  “It’s just that while we occupied Philadelphia, I met her…” and his voice trailed away.

  He could sense the sudden tension in Peter.

  “And?” Peter finally whispered, voice tight, even trembling.

  “It’s just that, well at that time…” and again he fell silent.

  “Something happened?”

  “No, not really,” Allen replied, though that was something of a lie. A lot had happened, and she had never left his heart after two and a half years.

  Any attempt at friendliness of but a moment before seemed to have evaporated as Peter gazed at him.

  Allen tried to smile.

  “Peter, don’t tell me that you…” and his voice trailed off.

  Peter just looked at him coldly.

  “Don’t tell me,” Allen said softly. “My God, she’s nearly two years older than you and I just assumed…”

  “Two years might be a big difference when I was fifteen,” Peter snapped, “but not now at twenty.”

  “You do have feelings for her then?” Allen asked. He was trying to sound like an old friend, kidding a comrade about a girl both were interested in, but it came out awkwardly.