University of Virginia Library

SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS.

It was customary in many of the inland towns of
New England, some thirty years ago, to celebrate
the anniversary of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis,
by a sham representation of that important event
in the history of the Revolutionary War. A town
meeting would be called, at which a company of men
would be detailed as British, and a company as
Americans — two leading citizens being selected to
represent Washington and Cornwallis in the mimic
surrender.

The pleasant little town of W——, in whose
schools the writer has been repeatedly “corrected,”
upon whose ponds he has often skated; upon whose
richest orchards he has, with other juvenile bandits,
many times dashed in the silent midnight; the town
of W——, where it was popularly believed these

bandits would “come to a bad end,” resolved to
celebrate the surrender. Rival towns had celebrated,
and W——determined to eclipse them in
the most signal manner. It is my privilege to tell
how W——succeeded in this determination.

The great day came. It was ushered in by the
roar of musketry, the ringing of the village church
bell, the squeaking of fifes, and the rattling of
drums.

People poured into the village from all over the
county. Never had W——experienced such a jam.
Never had there been such an onslaught upon gingerbread
carts. Never had New England rum
(for this was before Neal Dow's day) flowed so freely.
And W——'s fair daughters, who mounted
the house-tops to see the surrender, had never looked
fairer. The old folks came, too, and among them
were several war, scarred heroes, who had fought
gallantly at Monmouth and Yorktown. These brave
sons of '76 took no part in the demonstration, but
an honored bench was set apart for their exclusive
use on the piazza of Sile Smith's store. When they

were dry, all they had to do was to sing out to Sile's
boy, Jerry, “a leetle New Englan' this way, if you
please.” It was brought forthwith.

At precisely 9 o'clock, by the schoolmaster's new
“Lepeen” watch, the American and British forces
marched on to the village green and placed themselves
in battle array, reminding the spectator of
the time when

The character of Washington had been assigned
to 'Squire Wood, a well-to-do and influential farmer,
while that of Cornwallis had been given to the
village lawyer, a kind-hearted but rather pompous
person, whose name was Caleb Jones.

'Squire Wood, the Washington of the occasion,
had met with many unexpected difficulties in preparing
his forces, and in his perplexity he had emptied
not only his own canteen but those of most of his
aids. The consequence was—mortifying as it must
be to all true Americans—blushing as I do to tell

it, Washington at the commencement of the mimic
struggle was most unqualifiedly drunk.

The sham fight commenced. Bang! bang! bang!
from the Americans—bang! bang! bang! from the
British. The bangs were kept hotly up until the
powder gave out, and then came the order to charge.
Hundreds of wooden bayonets flashed fiercly in the
sunlight, each soldier taking very good care not to
hit any body.

“Thaz (hic) right,” shouted Washington, who
during the shooting had been racing his horse wildly
up and down the line, “thaz right! Gin it to
'em! Cut their tarnal heads off!”

“On Romans!” shrieked Cornwallis, who had
once seen a theatrical performance and remembered
the heroic appeals of the Thespian belligerents, “on
to the fray! No sleep till mornin'.”

“Let eout all their bowels,” yelled Washington,
“and down with taxation on tea!”

The fighting now ceased, the opposing forces were
properly arranged, and Cornwallis, dismounting,
prepared to present his sword to Washington according
to programme. As he walked slowly towards

the Father of His Country he rehearsed the little
speech he had committed for the occasion, while the
illustrious being who was to hear it was making desperate
efforts to keep in his saddle. Now he would
wildly brandish his sword and narrowly escape cutting
off his horse's ears, and then he would fall suddenly
forward on to the steed's neck, grasping the
mane as drowning men seize hold of straws. He
was giving an inimitable representation of Toodles on
horseback. All idea of the magnitude of the occasion
had left him, and when he saw Cornwallis approaching,
with slow and stately step, and swordhilt
extended toward him he inquired,

“What-'n devil you want, any (hic) how!”

“General Washington,” said Cornwallis, in dignified
and impressive tones, “I tender you my sword.
I need not inform you, Sir, how deeply—

The speech was here cut suddenly short by Washington,
who driving the spurs into his horse, playfully
attempted to run over the commander of the
British forces. He was not permitted to do this, for
his aids, seeing his unfortunate condition, seized the

horse by the bridle, straightened Washington up in
his saddle, and requested Cornwallis to proceed with
his remarks.

“General Washington,” said Cornwallis, “the
British Lion prostrates himself at the feet of the
American Eagle!”

“Eagle? Eagle!” yelled the infuriated Washington,
rolling off his horse and hitting Cornwallis
a frightful blow on the head with the flat of his
sword, “do you call me a Eagle, you mean sneakin'
cuss?” He struck him again, sending him to the
ground, and said, “I'll learn you to call me a Eagle,
you infernal scoundrel!”

Cornwallis remained upon the ground only a moment.
Smarting from the blows he had reeeived, he
arose with an entirely unlooked for recuperation on
the part of the fallen, and in direct defiance of historical
example; in spite of the men of both nations,
indeed, he whipped the Immortal Washington until
he roared for mercy.

The Americans, at first mortified and indignant at
the conduct of their chief, now began to sympathize

with, him and resolved to whip their mock foes in earnest.
They rushed fiercely upon them, but the British
were really the stronger party and drove the
Americans back. Not content with this they charged
madly upon them and drove them from the field
—from the village, in fact. There were many heads
damaged, eyes draped in mourning, noses fractured
and legs lamed—it is a wonder that no one was
killed outright.

Washington was confined to his house for several
weeks, but he recovered at last. For a time there
was a coolness between himself and Cornwallis, but
they finally concluded to join the whole county in
laughing about the surrender.

They live now. Time, the “artist,” has thoroughly
white-washed their heads, but they are very jolly
still. On town meeting days the old 'Squire always
rides down to the village. In the hind part of his
venerable yellow wagon is always a bunch of hay, ostensibly
for the old white horse, but really to hide a
glass bottle from the vulgar gaze. This bottle has on one
side a likeness of Lafayette, and upon the other may be

seen the Goddess of Liberty. What the bottle contains
inside I cannot positively say, but it is true that
'Squire Wood and Lawyer Jones visit that bottle
very frequently on town meeting days and come
back looking quite red in the face. When this redness
in the face becomes of the blazing kind, as it
generally does by the time the polls close, a short
dialogue like this may be heard:

“We shall never play surrender again, Lawyer
Jones!”

“Them days is over, 'Squire Wood!”

And then they laugh and jocosely punch each
other in the ribs.