Peggy Owen at Yorktown

by Lucy Foster Madison

The nineteenth of October dawned gloriously. About noon the combined armies marched to their positions in the large field lying south of the town, and were drawn up in two lines about a mile long, on the right and left of a road running from the village. On the right of the road were the American troops; on the left those of the French. A large concourse of people had gathered from all the countryside to see the spectacle. Every countenance glowed with satisfaction and joy. The long struggle was virtually ended. It had been a contest not for power, not for aggrandizement, but for a great principle.

To Peggy’s joy it was found that her little mare had not been killed, and so, mounted on Star, she was permitted to view the pageant by her father’s side.

The French troops presented a most brilliant spectacle in white uniforms with colored trimmings, and with plumed and decorated officers at their head. Along the line floated their banners of white silk embroidered with the golden lilies. They were gallant allies in gallant array. Their gorgeous standards caught the glint of the sun and glittered and sparkled in its rays. But the girl turned to view the less attractive Americans.

There was variety of dress, poor at best. The French gentlemen laughed at the lack of uniform, but respected the fighting abilities of the men so clad. But if many wore but linen overalls there was a soldierly bearing that commanded attention. These men were conquerors. Their very appearance bespoke the hardships and privations they had undergone to win in the struggle. Over their heads there fluttered the starry banner which through their exertions had earned its right to live. Through these men a nation had been born into the world. The golden lilies were soon to wither; the red, white and blue of America was to be taken later by France in their stead.

At two o’clock the captive army filed out of the garrison. “Let there be no cheering,” had been the order from Washington. “They have made a brave defense.” And so the march was made between silent ranks of conquerors, the music being the then well-known air of “The World Turned Upside Down.” The tune probably expressed very accurately the feelings of the men who were to lay down their arms that autumn afternoon. Their world had indeed been turned upside down when they were prisoners of the men whom they had affected to despise. Each soldier had been given a new uniform by Cornwallis, and the army marched quietly and with precision to the field where they were to lay down their arms. But if there was quietness there was sullenness also. The pride and spirit of Britain were put to a severe test, and many could scarcely conceal their mortification as they marched with cased colors, an indignity that had been inflicted upon the garrison at Charlestown.

As they came forth every eye sought, not the plumed leader of the French, but the plainly attired gentleman who sat upon a noble charger, and viewed their coming with an inscrutable countenance. This was the man but for whom they would have been victorious—that noble and gracious figure which signified to all the world that the American Revolution had ended in complete victory, the Virginia planter, whom they had despised at the beginning of the conflict. They regarded him now with something nearly approaching awe—the leader who had encountered trials and obstacles such as no general had ever before been called upon to face. The trials had been overcome and endured; the obstacles surmounted, and the country carried on to victory in spite of itself.

Earl Cornwallis pleaded indisposition, and sent the soldiers who worshipped him out to stand their humiliation without him. It was General O’Hara who tendered his sword to General Washington who, with dignity, motioned that it should be given to General Lincoln, who had been in command at Charlestown when that place surrendered to the British.

It was over at last, and the stars and stripes floated from the redoubts at Yorktown. The officers were released on parole, and the men were to be held prisoners in the states of Virginia and Maryland.

“And now what shall be done with thee, lass?” queried David Owen of Peggy.

“Let us go home, father,” cried Peggy. “I am so tired of war and its surroundings. Can thee not get a leave?”