Victory at Yorktown: A Novel by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich Page A

on to Wilmington or turn north to try to link up with Benedict Arnold in Virginia if he was to remain an effective fighting force.
    To the tavern generals, whoever held the field at the end of the fight, no matter how much blood was spilled, was the only criterion to judge victory or defeat. He ate his meal in silence, feeling a bit awkward that the importance of his duty had entitled him to actual real shillings and a couple of Dutch thalers as hard currency money to wing him on his way to Washington. He paid for his meal, more than a few turning to gaze at him when the tavern echoed with the sound of real coins clinking. He went out to the stable behind the tavern after silently eating his meal, the stable boy having rubbed down his mount and fed him.
    “Poor horse,” the boy said, “mister you be riding him like you fleeing the devil himself. Perhaps give him a rest.”
    He patted the exhausted animal’s neck affectionately, having traded his previous mount with the hefty price of an additional two pounds for this animal yesterday evening in Baltimore. The trade had been almost honest, though the gait of the animal was discomforting and for the first few miles it had tried to throw him several times so it could flee back to its stable, but then, resigned to its fate, had given good service. It was just a few more miles into Philadelphia where he would quietly trade him at the military postal headquarters and then quickly get out of town for the ride across Jersey before being waylaid by some overbearing officer who would try and force news from him.
    He gave the stable hand a few coppers as thanks for his care and mounted; the animal actually seemed to sigh with disbelief that he would be forced to push on. It was ten miles to Philadelphia and exhaustion for both horse and rider was transcended by duty.
    *   *   *
    It was well past dawn when he finally reached the outskirts of Philadelphia. A middle-aged man, dressed in a raggedy uniform, one legged and leaning on a crutch, was holding up a bundle of newspapers.
    “News of the defeat at Guilford Court House in Carolina,” he shouted over and over, citizens out early gathering around to buy the paper. Peter reined in, drew out a penny, and handed it over.
    “When did this come in?” Peter asked.
    “Last night, some special courier for Congress and word sent down to the papers to print it up,” the one-legged man replied.
    He wanted to curse. There was no possible way the official dispatches could have arrived ahead of him. It must have been someone else, perhaps even Gates with his own people in the field to undermine Greene and thus win back his position. There was no sense in arguing the point with a half-crippled veteran, and he just shook his head as he scanned the supposed dispatch, saying that Greene had fled the field of battle, leaving the victory to Cornwallis.
    “Who you with?” the veteran asked.
    “First Continental,” Peter lied.
    “My old unit,” the veteran said, “don’t remember seeing you in the ranks.”
    “Must of joined after you. Where’d you lose the leg?”
    “Valley Forge,” and there was bitterness in his voice. “Foot froze, rotted, fell off, and then had to take the leg with it.”
    “Sorry for that.”
    “So now I sell papers and get a quarter of a penny profit for each. Take a good look at me laddie. You’ll be like this in another year or so.”
    Peter hesitated, reached into his haversack, fished out one of the last two thalers and tossed it to the man, who holding the silver coin looked up at him stunned, unable to reply as Peter rode off. It would mean an empty stomach for the last part of his ride, but how could he eat and leave a man like that hungry. At least at Valley Forge, as part of Washington’s personal guard and then von Steuben’s first training company, he had a barn to sleep in and rations better than most.
    His mount was all but stumbling with exhaustion, and frankly he needed at least a few