Read Online Victory at Yorktown: A Novel by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich - Free Book Online

largesse has sent more than I can possibly consume.”
    The two shook their heads. Though hungry, how any man could eat at a time like this was beyond Allen. He feared if he took a single bite he’d vomit it back up. It was just the same as he always felt in the final moments before battle was joined.
    Jenkins stood silent, drawing a napkin around John’s neck.
    “Not too tight, now,” John said, trying to joke, and again Jenkins begin to fill up with tears.
    “Jenkins, none of that. I know your tears come straight from the heart, but do not unman me with them.”
    Jenkins nodded, unable to speak.
    “Would you be so good as to fetch some hot water? I wish to be freshly shaved for the occasion, brush down my uniform, and I’m not sure of the protocol here: Should I wear my wig or not?”
    He actually looked over at Peter as he spoke.
    Peter, remembering previous hangings, swallowed hard.
    “May I suggest, sir, no wig.”
    He did not add that often the wig came flying off, or shifted to an unsightly angle, especially if the victim’s neck was not broken and he began to instinctively kick and struggle in his death agonies, as he slowly strangled at the end of the rope.
    “Fine then, forget powdering the wig, Jenkins. Now please be quick with the hot water and razor.”
    He actually ate a fair part of the meal, then asked for a moment of privacy to relieve himself. John and Peter stepped outside to do the same. A long column of troops was coming in from the encampment behind the residence, and started to deploy around the gallows on three sides. A group of officers came down the road from the direction of Washington’s headquarters, the judges of the court-martial, required by tradition to witness the carrying out of the sentence imposed. Allen looked toward General Greene hoping that somehow there would be a last moment reprieve. He caught the man’s gaze. Greene looked straight at him and gave a subtle shake of his head.
    The two went back into the room. The breakfast tray was set aside, Jenkins already shaving John, his face red from the effect of the razor. How tempting, Allen thought, more than one man had escaped the terror of the hangman’s noose by, at such a moment, just seizing the razor and cutting his own throat. But that would be so out of place for John that there was not even a guard posted directly alongside Jenkins. The two sentries were just standing by the door, curiously looking in, one whispering to the other a comment about Andre’s nerve.
    A drumroll could be heard, growing louder, approaching from the encampment.
    “I think it is about time, now,” John said, standing up after Jenkins wiped the last of the lather from his face, letting Jenkins help him into his scarlet coat, his uniform jacket, Jenkins brushing it off with a whisk broom, the man obviously having polished the gold buttons to a mirrorlike sheen. He lifted the neck cloth and cravat from the chair where he had placed the uniform. Peter coughed politely, caught Jenkins’s eye, and shook his head. Jenkins stood as if stricken and then folded them up, looked around desperately, and then just tucked them into his pocket.
    The drumroll was now just outside their window, and shifted from a march beat to the slow steady beat of a funeral march. A moment later there was a knock at the door.
    John, already facing the door, took a deep breath.
    “You may enter.”
    Four guards were standing in the corridor, led by a young captain who saluted.
    “Sir, it is time.”
    Just behind them was a minister, who stepped forward, looked at Peter, Allen, and Jenkins without comment, and the three left the room to wait out in the corridor.
    Several minutes later the door opened and John stepped out, still forcing a smile.
    “Gentlemen, I am at your disposal,” he said, voice cool, even, and not breaking.
    Flanked by the four guards, the captain in front, the minister behind, they started for the door, and John held up his hand.
    “A momentary