Victory at Yorktown (Thorndike Press Large Print Core) - Hardcover
A continuation of the best-selling series that includes Valley Forge finds General Washington ending a three-year stalemate and embarking on a secret 300-mile forced march of his entire army to meet the French navy's Chesapeake Bay blockade and capture Cornwallis's entire force. (historical fiction). Simultaneous.
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NEWT GINGRICH, recent Presidential Candidate and former Speaker of the House, is the bestselling author of Gettysburg and Pearl Harbor and the longest serving teacher of the Joint War Fighting Course for Major Generals at Air University and is an honorary Distinguished Visiting Scholar and Professor at the National Defense University. He resides in Virginia with his wife, Callista, with whom he hosts and produces documentaries, including their latest, A City Upon A Hill.
WILLIAM R. FORSTCHEN, Ph.D., is a Faculty Fellow at Montreat College in Montreat, North Carolina. He received his doctorate from Purdue University and is the author of more than forty books. He is the New York Times best selling author of One Second After. He resides near Asheville, North Carolina, with his daughter, Meghan.
One
NEAR TAPPAN, NEW YORK
OCTOBER 1, 1780
Despite the sun shining brightly through the autumn leaves on the Hudson Valley, he felt cold, cold and weary. They had given him a mission, and it was almost a curse that it should have fallen on him. Since this damn war had started for him, nearly four years ago, he had never felt as alone and depressed as he did now.
Major Allen van Dorn was posted to the staff of General Sir Henry Clinton, commander in chief of all of His Majesty’s forces in North America. He looked over at his sole escort, the rather nervous sergeant riding beside him.
“Sergeant O’Toole, keep that white flag up high, and be waving it, not hanging limp,” he sighed. “We’re most likely inside their lines now. You want one of their militia to blow us out of the saddles and only then figure they made a mistake?”
“No, sir, sorry, sir.” The sergeant took to waving the white banner with exaggerated vigor as they continued along the road to Tappan on the Hudson.
It was a path well known to Allen, a scene of near-daily skirmishing since the two armies had settled into what appeared to be positions of permanent standoff and waiting. The British army in New York City faced off against the Continental army, which was under direct command of George Washington and garrisoned near West Point. The land in between was often fought over, but never with any serious intent. Both sides were waiting on events transpiring seven hundred miles away in the South. The emphasis of the war had shifted to the South after the reversal at Monmouth Court House over two years ago, after the splitting off of a significant number of Clinton’s best troops, who were placed under General Cornwallis to try an alternative plan to break the deadlock. They had realized that New England, the birthing place and hotbed of this rebellion, could never be taken by the British with the forces at hand. The campaign to take back upstate New York in ’77 had turned into a debacle under Burgoyne. Clinton realized that pressing a campaign into Pennsylvania, as tried three years ago, would degenerate into a wild-goose chase with Washington forever drawing back deeper into the hinterland and the wilderness beyond.
The British leaders had concluded that the South was now their best chance. Reports indicated that a high percentage of the residents were, at heart, if not outright Tories, at least wishing to be loyal to the Crown and see this bloody stalemate come to an end. Split the Southern states off and bring them back to the Crown, offer freedom to slaves if they would fight, close the war off there, with Loyalists in control in the field, they reasoned. As they restored colonial governments, they thought, the Middle States would crack wide open and collapse as well. That would leave just upstate New York and New England. With their allies to the South gone, the northern states would finally seek agreement. Unfortunately, the French were now in this as well, expanding it to a global conflict. It was all madness.
It felt on this day like it would just go on forever. He was tired. He was cold, though the sun shone warmly, and he dreaded what the day ahead might bring, though Clinton had dispatched him with some little hope that all might yet be well.
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 t...
NEAR TAPPAN, NEW YORK
OCTOBER 1, 1780
Despite the sun shining brightly through the autumn leaves on the Hudson Valley, he felt cold, cold and weary. They had given him a mission, and it was almost a curse that it should have fallen on him. Since this damn war had started for him, nearly four years ago, he had never felt as alone and depressed as he did now.
Major Allen van Dorn was posted to the staff of General Sir Henry Clinton, commander in chief of all of His Majesty’s forces in North America. He looked over at his sole escort, the rather nervous sergeant riding beside him.
“Sergeant O’Toole, keep that white flag up high, and be waving it, not hanging limp,” he sighed. “We’re most likely inside their lines now. You want one of their militia to blow us out of the saddles and only then figure they made a mistake?”
“No, sir, sorry, sir.” The sergeant took to waving the white banner with exaggerated vigor as they continued along the road to Tappan on the Hudson.
It was a path well known to Allen, a scene of near-daily skirmishing since the two armies had settled into what appeared to be positions of permanent standoff and waiting. The British army in New York City faced off against the Continental army, which was under direct command of George Washington and garrisoned near West Point. The land in between was often fought over, but never with any serious intent. Both sides were waiting on events transpiring seven hundred miles away in the South. The emphasis of the war had shifted to the South after the reversal at Monmouth Court House over two years ago, after the splitting off of a significant number of Clinton’s best troops, who were placed under General Cornwallis to try an alternative plan to break the deadlock. They had realized that New England, the birthing place and hotbed of this rebellion, could never be taken by the British with the forces at hand. The campaign to take back upstate New York in ’77 had turned into a debacle under Burgoyne. Clinton realized that pressing a campaign into Pennsylvania, as tried three years ago, would degenerate into a wild-goose chase with Washington forever drawing back deeper into the hinterland and the wilderness beyond.
The British leaders had concluded that the South was now their best chance. Reports indicated that a high percentage of the residents were, at heart, if not outright Tories, at least wishing to be loyal to the Crown and see this bloody stalemate come to an end. Split the Southern states off and bring them back to the Crown, offer freedom to slaves if they would fight, close the war off there, with Loyalists in control in the field, they reasoned. As they restored colonial governments, they thought, the Middle States would crack wide open and collapse as well. That would leave just upstate New York and New England. With their allies to the South gone, the northern states would finally seek agreement. Unfortunately, the French were now in this as well, expanding it to a global conflict. It was all madness.
It felt on this day like it would just go on forever. He was tired. He was cold, though the sun shone warmly, and he dreaded what the day ahead might bring, though Clinton had dispatched him with some little hope that all might yet be well.
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 t...
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- PublisherThorndike Press
- Publication date2012
- ISBN 10 1410453006
- ISBN 13 9781410453006
- BindingHardcover
- Number of pages585
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Victory at Yorktown (Thorndike Press Large Print Core)
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ISBN 10: 1410453006
ISBN 13: 9781410453006
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