Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (19 page)

“Did you expect less? Did you expect to attack Washington without some sort of response?” Rush asked.

“He is the commanding general. He should be above such low and base actions against my character and show all proper respect to his superior as director of the Board of War.”

“Attack and expect to be attacked in turn, sir,” Rush replied wearily, taking the decanter Gates had signed for and pouring himself another drink. “As to being his superior because of the Board of War, may I remind you that Congress has yet to rescind the authorization given to him as supreme commander of all forces now in the field of action.”

“This, sir,” Gates replied, “is a battle for the soul of this Republic, the authority of the Republic and the support of the Congress which I have come here, fresh from the battlefield of Saratoga, to defend with my life, sir.”

“Yes, of course, I am certain of that,” Rush replied coldly, as he drained his glass.

Gates fell silent, turning his attention back to the letters directed to him and to the fragments of reports of letters sent by others, including Washington, to Laurens and other members of Congress, spotted by agents of his on the desks of those men, with notes jotted down as to what they had seen.

Nothing was said for several minutes as the two sifted through the various documents.

Rush paused, picking up one of them and scanning it.

“Have you ever heard of a Baron von Steuben?” he finally asked.

“Who?”

“Some German. Claims to be a general who served under Frederick. He landed in Portsmouth last month with letters of introduction from Franklin and Deane.”

Rush scanned the note.

“Hard to read, but states here that even now he is on his way to report to us in York.”

“Another damn foreigner like Lafayette and Lee.”

“Or Conway, for that matter,” Rush replied dismissively.

Gates said nothing.

He put on his spectacles, and, holding the letter up to the candle that illuminated their table, he looked at it closely.

“States here he is some sort of drillmaster in the Prussian method of war. Served in the Seven Years’ War, personally decorated by Frederick, and then served in the czarina’s army against the Turks. Lieutenant general and a baron now, no less. Offering services without demand of rank or pay.”

“That’s a change,” Gates sniffed. “No rank or pay.”

Rush looked at him, making no comment about Conway and others demanding rank and pay before they were barely off the boat.

“He sounds interesting,” Rush announced, tossing the letter back on the table between them.

Near Worcester, Massachusetts
January 14, 1778

Baron Friedrich Wilhelm Ludolf Gerhard Augustin von Steuben reined in his mount and looked at his thoroughly miserable companions, and the equally miserable countryside, as dusk settled upon them.

The day had started with a freezing rain and was now getting worse, with sleet, snow, and a bitter-cold wind out of the northeast. At least it was at their backs as they rode out of Boston, where he had lingered since his arrival in America a month ago.

Recruited by Franklin and Deane, he had tried to wrap his brain around English on the journey over through the stormy and nauseating Atlantic, but so far he had gained only a smattering of polite platitudes. Nevertheless, he had won over the former president of Congress, John Hancock, and the radical revolutionary Sam Adams, who had fired off letters to Congress announcing his arrival. They had urged Congress to take advantage of the vast skills of this well-respected professional, fresh from Europe, a man who, according to all documentation, had been a general with both Frederick of Prussia and Catherine of Russia.

But what he now confronted on this, his first day on the long journey to York, Pennsylvania, and a meeting with Congress, seemed to presage a bad start to his career with this strange new army on the far side of the world.

The weather had turned miserable, the storm driving them along as he and his companions took the post road out of Boston, heading west. His traveling companions for the long journey to meet with Congress were an amusing mix, a small band of young Frenchmen. Even his secretary and aide was
French, a pleasant enough lad, Pierre Du Ponceau, 17. He was a remarkable student of language in spite of his youth—he could at least converse in German and had already Anglicized or Germanized his name to Peter.

Several other young men rode with him, seeking office in the American Army, a couple of servants, and, most important to his morale, his ever-present and loyal Azor, a dog of doubtful pedigree but formidable powers of intimidation, larger than any mastiff or St. Bernard; if he felt his master threatened in any way, he stood by his side with teeth bared. It was something Friedrich found highly amusing, since at heart the big fool was a coward, and if the bluff didn’t work, his dog would then quickly hide behind his human protector, leaving a wet trail in retreat.

“I think there is a tavern ahead,” Peter announced. Throughout the day, he had dashed ahead in his youthful exuberance to explore and do reconnaissance, taking to heart John Hancock’s warning, at their departure, to move with caution once out into the countryside, since bands of Loyalists were known to waylay and rob anyone they thought was a patriot. Once out of Boston, Peter and his companions had even expressed concern that perhaps Indians might be lurking, and Friedrich had teased that in such a case, they must forgo wearing a powdered wig in order to give their foes better access to scalps—a joke at which all had paled.

Inwardly von Steuben reveled in this new adventure. He had seen service for most of the Seven Years’ War, been wounded and personally decorated by Frederick at Minden. When captured by the Russians, he had forged new friendships while being held prisoner in St. Petersburg, and was given parole that allowed him to visit the city during the day. He had been the first to inform his king that, with the death of the virulently anti-German Czarina Elizabeth and the ascent to the throne of Peter III, a slavish devotee of Frederick, the new czar would pull Russia out of the war. By that stage, Russia was on the verge of destroying Prussia. For at least a little while he had indeed enjoyed the position of a “Greek messenger” who had borne good news. And for a few years that had gained him a position on the Prussian general staff.

But postwar employment was difficult to hold, and eventually he offered his sword to Russia, under Catherine—after she had, according to rumor, murdered her husband, the late Peter III. He had fought against the Turks but then yet again found himself unemployed. He lacked the subservience needed for survival in the higher echelons of the armies and courts of Europe, particularly when there were no new wars to be fought.

This new adventure most definitely fit his taste, though there was a slight irony in that he was off to fight against the British, trusted allies during the Seven Years War; that he was riding with a gaggle of young French nobles, whose fathers he had fought against; and that if he were ever to go into action, he might very well face what the Americans called Hessians—actually men from half a dozen minor principalities, including his native province, with undoubtedly more than a few friends and comrades of old in their ranks.

Still, there was something about this adventure, this war, that caught him and held his attention. Gone here was the rigid system of court favors and lineage—though in Frederick’s army, at least in time of war, an officer’s rise was mainly through merit…as long as he had not made too many enemies on the way up.

From what he had studied of this war, the fact that the Americans had even survived for over two years against the hammer blows of the English, whose troops were second only to those of the Prussians on the battlefield, said something of their spirit. His month in Boston had been a time well spent in educating himself about this new cause and the new country that was growing from its passions.

The depressing side was that, as with all causes, this Revolution was torn by faction. As a survivor of the courts at Magdeburg, Berlin, St. Petersburg, and elsewhere, he knew how to survive. Until he had a firm foothold on the ground, he should listen, nod much, and say little in reply.

What he had gathered was that this Revolution was little better than thirteen independent states, gathered together for the moment. Like any alliance, it was prone to flying apart if not guided by a firm hand. It was torn by dissent: some, like Sam Adams, the firebrand, arguing that the war should be fought with short-term militias—that they had done well enough at Bunker Hill and in besieging Boston, and that Washington, besides being a Southerner, was bent on being the next Cromwell.

Many praised Gates as the man of the hour, the glorious victor of Saratoga, and both Adams and Hancock had written letters of introduction to that same general, couriered ahead to York.

Others whispered that Washington would still prove to be their guide to victory.

Twenty years of survival in the courts of Europe had taught him much. Coming to something of an understanding of the rather confusing chain of command for this nation and army, he had dictated three brief letters of introduction, to the current president of Congress, to General Gates as head of
the Board of War, and to General George Washington. He had informed each, in turn, that as a matter of courtesy he was also in communication with the other two, and that first and foremost his goal was to offer his services to the cause they all shared and to the victory they all desired.

Hancock advised him to first report to Congress at York, and this he would do. Studying the maps, he could see that this journey of several weeks would take him within a few miles of where Washington was encamped. Protocol, he sensed, demanded he first go to Congress without paying proper respects to the general in the field. He sensed it was a waste of valuable time. But if he was to prove himself here, after years of languid inactivity, a few more weeks one way or the other should not matter.

Following Peter’s lead, he pressed along the muddy road toward where the excitable young Frenchman said a tavern awaited. If this was considered a primary postal road in this country, he could well understand why no army here would venture forth on a winter campaign. Louis of France and all the kings of Prussia for generations had always placed an emphasis on building roads that were properly engineered and designed for drainage. Primary roads crossing rivers were to be spanned with stone bridges, and there were to be proper cantonments at regular distances to house troops and depots ready with food and supplies. This American wilderness was as bad as Russia, an absolutely appalling situation not even a day’s ride out from one of their most important trading cities.

He spotted the tavern sign bucking back and forth in the wind. It was not a very promising looking place, shutters pulled tight, no light to be seen as darkness descended, a lone outpost on this miserable road with only a few outbuildings and a barn to be seen surrounding it.

They rode up to the door, dismounting, Peter leading the way. Peter tried the latch. The door was locked and he pounded on it.

A moment later it cracked open, a narrow, squinting face peering out.

“We seek lodgings for the night,” Peter announced and gestured back to his half-dozen companions.

The innkeeper gazed at him coolly, eyes darting, noticing the uniforms.

“I’m filled up for the night. Ride on to Worcester.”

“Sir, you see the weather. Night is falling. Surely you have room.”

“Filled up, I tell you. Now ride on. Ten miles to Worcester.”

Von Steuben, not understanding a word, stood with his back to the wind, and then wandered off a few steps to look around the side of the tavern. There was no sign of life, doors to the barn open, stalls empty.

He turned back as Peter continued to argue.

“What is wrong?” he asked Peter in German.

“The innkeeper claims he has no rooms for the night.”

“Force your way in, damn him.”

Peter nodded, obviously a bit nervous, but followed orders, putting his shoulder to the door, pushing it open, he and the others stumbling in.

Von Steuben, as befitting his rank in such matters, came last.

A warm fire crackled in an oversize fieldstone fireplace, but the room was entirely empty except for what appeared to be the owner’s wife and a couple of servants, who stood nervously at the door leading from the tavern room back into the kitchen.

“Filled up, I tell you.”

“I see no one here,” Peter retorted.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Sir, I see no one here.”

“They’ve gone out hunting and said they’d be back. Now, get out!”

Peter, stunned, could not reply, as the owner, backing around the long bar, produced a fowling piece. He didn’t aim it toward them, just laid it on the bar.

“Now, James!” his wife exclaimed.

“Rebecca, shut your mouth. These are nothing but a bunch of damn Frenchie dandies, and I’ll be damned if they stay in my place. I’m sick of all of them. Fought them in the last war and now they say they’re on our side against the king?”

“What is this?” Friedrich asked of Peter.

“He hates us French and I think he’s a Loyalist, sir,” Peter informed him in German.

“What are you talking there?” James snapped.

Von Steuben ignored him, turned, and walked out of the tavern. Peter and the others looked at him incredulously, several of the young men turning—ready to leave, retreat, and try to force their way on for several more hours through the storm.

Reaching his horse, von Steuben pulled out his favorite weapon, an old Cossack horse pistol, a massive thing with a barrel nearly a foot long and close to .80-caliber. Loaded with a one-ounce round ball and a dozen buckshot on top, it was a most effective weapon. Several times it had saved his life. He didn’t bother to check the pan—chances were the powder was damp, and inwardly he knew he wouldn’t pull the trigger anyhow. It would be a poor start
in this country if, on the first day of his journey to meet with Congress, he blew the head off of a surly innkeeper.

Du Ponceau was in the doorway, assuming their leader had conceded. He was surprised to see him returning, and then grinned as he saw this German storm back in, right hand concealed under his cape. Von Steuben walked briskly up to the innkeeper, who stood there with a defiant smirk.

An instant later the pistol was out, cocked and pointed straight at his forehead. Azor was by his side, head high enough that he could see over the edge of the bar, hair on his back bristled, teeth bared in a throaty growl.

The man backed up, gaze shifting from the gun aimed at him to Azor, and back to the gun. He nearly stumbled over a chair as he tried to retreat toward the doorway into the kitchen, where his wife stood screaming.

“Pierre, translate!” von Steuben roared. “Curse for me, in English, at them. Then tell this man we are officers of their Continental army.”

Du Ponceau began to speak hurriedly.

“Tell him we are tired, hungry, our horses spent. And say that I will send him straight to hell minus his head if he utters another word against our noble French allies.”

Du Ponceau looked over at him with a sidelong glance and grinned.

“Thank you, sir, for that sentiment. May I curse at him some more as well?”

“Yes, damn him!”

Azor, sensing that the argument was going their way and that his master’s opponent was absolutely terrified, stepped toward the cowering man, growling.

Von Steuben snapped a command and Azor stopped in place. Von Steuben almost smiled; he wondered what would happen if he ever did order his giant dog to attack.

“Some more curses, Peter, and then say that we are staying and add that we will pay him in silver.”