Her Name Is America

Surrender at Yorktown

October 19, 1781

Battle of Yorktown

Yorktown, United States

"Where is Lord Cornwallis?" asked General Washington.

"Taken ill," replied his counterpart.

France scoffed to my left.

All arrangements for the British surrender had been made in the two preceding days. Negotiations had gone in our favor, including the right to prosecute any Loyalists remaining in the country. Marquis de Lafayette stood shoulder to shoulder with General Washington at the surrender ceremony, just as France stood by me. Our regiments of soldiers stood behind us, French to the left and Americans to the right. Washington had denied Cornwallis the privilege of playing an American tune, so they instead played an old British protest song, "The World Turn'd Upside Down."

As the full British delegation of senior officers took their places, only one caught my attention. He did not arrive on horseback, nor was he highly decorated. In fact, he looked just as young as the rank-and-file British soldiers and German mercenaries behind him. Unlike the dispassionate soldiers, his eyes were filled with rage as he glared at General Washington.

My breath caught in my throat.

I felt France's steadying hand on my arm.

The fill-in general, O'Hara, bowed his head as he surrendered the hilt of his sword to Lafayette. An amused chuckle escaped the Frenchman as he waved his gloved hand to Washington. Without meeting his eye, O'Hara turned the hilt in his direction. Washington directed the surrender to the Major General beside him, who had suffered greatly at the Battle of Saratoga.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw England approaching us. I stopped breathing as he fearlessly breached the line of American generals. He came to stand in front of France without sparing me a single glance. He offered him a hostile handshake, his voice heated and bitter.

"I won't forget this."

France folded his arms behind his back. "Look at her, Angleterre," he murmured.

England's jaw clenched. An unruly lock of brown hair stuck out from under his three-cornered hat—the only flaw in his otherwise perfect appearance. His face was an unflinching mask.

"Hmphf," said France, raising his chin. "You deserve this humiliation."

He withdrew his hand in anger. As he stormed off, he ripped the rifle off his shoulder and threw it down between two regiments of American soldiers. A British general ordered the rest of the soldiers to line up and do the same.

The pile grew tall and wide as each and every soldier surrendered his weapon. An unexpected wave of emotion washed over me as I watched this unfold. It felt as though a brand new chapter was beginning—a blank page, untainted by the ink of the past. It was equal parts exciting and terrifying.

As the disarmed British soldiers formed ranks again, their snare drums struck up a marching beat, soon joined by the fife's lofty tune. The American marching band began a particularly loud rendition of "Yankee Doodle" in response.

"Well, well," France chuckled. "Good riddance, hm?"

I blinked the blurriness from my eyes. I turned my face into the breeze, letting it brush the hair away from my face and cool my skin. The rolling countryside of Virginia lay before me, with the city of Yorktown sprawling its way to the sea. I felt my lips turn into a smile.

"Y—Yes..."