Chapter 62: The Final Chapter

The siege seemed to go on forever, much louder and more prolonged on the south side of the York than at Gloucester Point. It got so you could actually sleep while the deep-throated hammering went on and on. Those of us in Captain Foster's company had two weeks of rest for all practical purposes as we waited on the Bay side of the Point, the French side, near a small inlet, taking pot shot at targets of opportunity and hoping that Lord Cornwallis would try to make a run for it. Mostly we were spectators although I sent one man back every other day with a report. The ones doing all the work were the sappers, miners and artillerymen. The cavalry scouted about, looking pretty, and the infantrymen kept their heads down mostly, hoping a big shell would not land in their neighborhood.

On the evening of October 16, under a fast-lowering sky, we noted unusual activity within the British lines on our side of the York. I sent one of the men back to tell Foster. Several small boats had been rowed back and forth despite our long-range efforts to prevent their passage. We had seen a few spectacular plumes of water from naval guns. This was just a day or two after the Americans and French had stormed two of the close-in redoubts at Yorktown at night with, we were told, wonderful success. The British counterattack, which we had heard some of the next day, evidently failed miserably. I had already reported that the artillery ammunition was much depleted at Glouster. The noose was tightening. We were now firing six or seven rounds for every one of theirs, and the fort's walls, at least on our side of the river, were showing the effects of the continuous pounding.

Suddenly a troop of Tarleton's cavalry stormed out of the fort and up the hill toward our small camp. We stood our ground as long as we could, firing volleys with our muskets and then scattered into the woods to watch them trample our tents. I sent all the men I could find back to headquarters. A half-hour later I crept up to a place on the fortress wall where one of the big French shells had buried itself before exploding. Scudding clouds covered the sickle moon, and I felt safe from discovery unless I did something stupid.

Before me on the floor of the English fort, wagons were being loaded and teams harnessed up, spare horses paraded everywhere, and, I noticed almost too late, it looked as if the sentries had been doubled. In the distance I could see large rowboats being pushed out into the mouth of the York. I was tempted to get back and report but decided to wait for the next act of this drama. Something was going on, but I certainly was not sure what. Tarleton might have been getting ready to give up his fort and reinforce Conwallis.

I did not have long to wait. Well before midnight, they began to arrive: boat after boat with a dozen or so rowers for each brought in a whole regiment, the 23rd I guessed from their flags, then a brigade of guards and many ranks of light infantry. They all trooped into the fort and were happily greeted by its defenders and hustled up near the walls where they were safe from the expected and generally constant shelling. The boats hurried back across the calm river mouth for another load. It was quickly obvious; Cornwallis was going to try to break out. I slid down the face of the fort and ran toward the American and French lines.

"Alt, alt!" came the cry a few minutes later. I grabbed a tree to stop myself and cried out "Vive le Roi."

The pan flashed, and I dove to the ground before the musket fired. They had changed the countersign, the password. and I had forgotten. "Americaine," I yelled and drew another shot. I crawled back into the woods, noticing that the branches above me were swinging back and forth harder and faster. I could not remember the new countersign. A few large drops of rain spattered down as I crashed through the laurels and berry bushes, ignoring the scratches I was accumulating until I was back at our ruined camp ground. Then the artillery began again, and I could actually see some of the shells flying overhead under the fast-gathering clouds. One set of guns on the far shore was firing heated balls at the British ships, and they left a fiery tail in the dark sky.