Victory at Yorktown: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 never 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