Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (30 page)

“Then it’s true?”

“Yes,” he sighed, “it’s true.”

“How dare they!” she announced indignantly.

“Of course they dare. The facts are plain enough, my dear. Gates allegedly wins at Saratoga. He showed himself to be a poltroon last year when he refused to cross the Delaware in support of my attack and instead fled with Congress to Baltimore, there to lobby for position. He finally wrangled a command in the northern theater and laid claim to the victory that came but weeks after his arrival.

“Colonel Morgan and others tell me that if the victory belongs to anyone, it is to our loyal friend, Benedict Arnold, who saved the battle at a crucial mo
ment and, in so doing, was wounded in the leg so severely it was thought at first he would lose the limb. He is now recovering back at his home. Gates actually had him arrested for insubordination before that fight, but Arnold broke arrest and galloped to the front just at the moment Gates was ready to retreat. He rallied the men and led them to victory.

“But it was Gates who wrote the reports and all but galloped back to Lancaster and then York claiming the victory, glory, and praise.”

He shook his head.

“He is now head of this contemptible Board of War and had the audacity to send his lackey Conway to, as he said, ‘evaluate this army,’ which had all but been abandoned by Congress to fend for itself. Of course, all fault was laid here.”

“Will they remove you, George?”

He smiled.

“We do have allies, my dear. God bless the Marquis de Lafayette. You will like him. He is like a son to me.”

Feeling awkward, he fell silent after saying that. Martha had given birth to two children from her first marriage. But there had been no children for the two of them, and the reason for it was therefore obvious. It was a burden and disappointment that haunted him, and thus, some rumored, why he formed such close bonds with young men of promise, who in turn looked to him as if he was their father.

Lafayette, it was clear to her, was obviously one of them.

“Why do you bless this young Frenchman? I heard the armies are all but overrun with adventure seekers claiming high rank, and Congress is all too ready to hand out those ranks.”

“This lad is different. He offered himself to me directly as a gentleman volunteer for my staff. He was everywhere and anywhere, almost a nuisance at times with his eager rushing about, but in time he proved himself. At Brandywine I gave him temporary command of a brigade and he led it with such élan and valor that the men and mind you those men were tough veterans, some in the ranks since Boston cheered him.

“Now he is fighting a different battle. Perhaps one just as crucial, or even more so. He and others, of course, supposedly without my knowledge”—he paused and looked at her coolly as if to emphasize his point—“or yours, have embarked on a letter-writing campaign. He went so far as to write President Laurens directly, that if there was a change in command he feared that
friends of his in France might construe such a move the wrong way and urge the king to withdraw all support. I am told that, reading between the lines of that letter, it was clear he would be the one to write to the king of France and then personally deliver what he’d written. Generals Greene and Stirling are doing the same. There has even been a petition from several Virginia companies.”

“You seem to be getting told a lot about the activities of others, George.” She looked up at him with that understanding gaze of a wife who knew her husband far too well. “And your hand in this?”

“It would not be proper, of course, for me to engage in such activities or urge others to do so.”

“Wars are not just won on the battlefield, George. I recall reading one of your books, by that Italian, advising princes and such.”

“Of course, I have no idea what you are referencing, Martha.”

“Oh, of course not, George.”

He smiled.

“Is it true about Dr. Rush joining your critics?”

He nodded his head sadly.

“Yes, I trusted him. A good man. His encouragement was crucial before Trenton. That he would go over to their side is saddening. I have heard the same for both of the Adamses. Of John I would have thought better.”

“Is there anyone on your side?”

“Some of the Virginia and Carolina delegates, but last report I had, there is barely a quorum left in York—the rest have fled or gone home for the winter. So there is little Congress can do.

“As for the Board of War led by Gates. They can file their reports. But with whom? As to their mad idea to rely solely on an army of militia and disband any troops of longer service? I dare them to come to this place, line up these men, and tell them so. I daresay half the men will grab their blanket roll and go home, most likely never to return, but as for the rest?”

His voice was cold as he spoke and she could feel the tension in him.

“Not likely. I daresay that perhaps that was a hidden intent all along when we arrived at this place, found not one day’s food, not even a single ration waiting for twelve thousand hungry exhausted men. Not one tool, not one shelter prepared.”

His anger became clearly evident.

“Perhaps that was the intent all along. To let this army disintegrate, melt away, and go home. I would then be dismissed, and Gates would take com
mand in the spring—that is, if he could rally any army at all to stand beneath the flag once more.”

He broke away from her side and went back to the window to look out at the rising storm. A few men trudged past the headquarters, leading a pony cart pulled by a skin-and-bones mule, the wagon piled high with firewood.

Outside he could hear axes ringing. Men of the headquarters company were busily chopping up more firewood for him and for their own shelter in the barn, where they had rigged up several of Dr. Franklin’s stoves, parts of which had been salvaged out of the ruins of the forge down in the valley.

A soft knock on the door interrupted them.

“Enter.”

The door cracked open and it was Billy Lee. At the sight of him Martha broke into a smile.

“Billy Lee, how are you?”

“Just fine, ma’am, and it is a joy to see you.”

“As it is a joy for me to see you. But I must have a word with you.”

“Ma’am?” and he looked at her nervously.

“The general has lost weight. Far too much weight. I told you to take good care of him, didn’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. But you see the vittles, it’s been hard to find a proper meal of late.”

She stood up, laughed, and went to his side, though she did not take his hand.

“Your wife, Janie, sends her love to you and orders you to keep safe. She knitted a new scarf, mittens, and wool cap for you. I have them in my luggage.”

“That is kind of you, ma’am, and her. Ma’am, is she safe? We heard there was fever there some months back.”

“Just the usual summer complaints,” Martha lied. The smallpox epidemic had at last reached their rather isolated home; four slaves had died, two of them children, and over a score of others had fallen ill. Janie had been one, and out of loyalty to the man serving her husband in the field Martha had insisted that Janie be brought into the main house and nursed there by her personal servants. The girl had recovered but was terribly scarred. She would tell George of it and let him find the proper time later to break the news and arrange for a letter to be sent back to Mount Vernon from him.

“Ma’am, General, dinner is ready.”

“Thank you, Billy Lee.” Martha said, and this time she did reach out and touch him lightly on the shoulder. “And, Billy Lee, thank you for keeping my
beloved general safe. We’ve heard rumors of your heroism and I am grateful to you for it.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I will tell them you shall be joining the party shortly.”

He closed the door, and she looked back at her husband, who was smiling.

“That darn fool,” he sighed. “At times the British must think I am an African. Whenever the bullets begin to fly, he somehow finds a way to get between me and them.”

She went back to the mirror, checking her hair one more time, forgoing the formality of a wig for this occasion. Brushing some lint from the wool cape off her shoulders, she looked back at him.

“Am I presentable?” she asked, almost girlish with concern.

“Forever presentable,” he replied with enthusiasm, “and I am so glad you are here to be presented.”

He took her hand, led her to the door, and opened it.

In the room across the hall the table was set. His staff, generals, the wives of Greene and Stirling, all of them were waiting, the room crowded, extra mismatched chairs pushed in around the table.

As they entered, General Greene and his wife, acting as hosts, greeted them, the general bowing, Mrs. Greene offering a curtsy. The two women embraced, for they were friends from the winter before at Morristown. All gathered around the table broke into applause, George and Martha assuming the place of honor at the head of the table, which was so small that they were pressed almost shoulder to shoulder.

The plates had already been set. No fine china, just plain pewter. In the center of the table was a repast of boiled and fried salt pork, though there were some very thin slices of smoked ham as well. The bowls of sauerkraut and dried applies were filled to overflowing The Greenes again acted as hosts, doling out equal portions as the plates were passed around. Two bottles of wine for more than a dozen around the table had already been uncorked, companions to a jug of sweet cider for the second glass set before each. When all were served, Nathanael Greene stood, glass held high.

“For Martha Washington and her beloved and honored husband, His Excellency General George Washington.”

The others stood to join in the toast. Martha smiled broadly but Washington remained unmoved, merely sipping from his glass, waiting for the others to drink and sit down.

He then stood.

“Gentlemen and fair ladies,” he said softly. “There is a tradition we must never forget, no matter what the circumstances.”

He held his glass up.

“For these United States of America. For the Congress which guides and governs it, for the Declaration of Independence which defines us, and for those who serve honorably as their sworn duty directs them to serve.”

The others stood, looking one to the other, and raised their glasses, repeating the toast and then sitting back down.

As he settled into his chair, he looked over at Martha. She had tears in her eyes.

“Bet they’re having roast beef, suet pudding, kidney pies, plum duffs, the works in there,” someone growled.

Peter Wellsley looked over his shoulder at the complainer. Of course it was Putnam. The others joked if he didn’t have a complaint by the end of a day it would surely mean the coming of the end of time and the Day of Judgment.

“Ah, shut your yap and take your ration,” Harris growled.

The daily ritual of their company had just been played out. The finest choice of some actual smoked ham had been the last to be doled out, along with a handful of dried apples and a cup of kraut. Harris, betting most likely that the best would be the next to last, had called his own name, only to wind up with the ham bone to gnaw on, while Putnam had received the prize. Harris immediately declared that he would boil the bone later to get the marrow out.

Over the last month they had managed to make the barn a rather cozy place to live. Extra boards had been salvaged from the wreckage of the forge and hammered over any cracks. Fresh hay and straw were still up in the loft and had been forked down to be turned into bedding, though after a month they were crushed flat and increasingly filled with vermin. Dried horse manure had been moistened and troweled into cracks between the boards to keep out drafts, what was left of their tenting strung together to form enclosures around the Franklin stoves, parts of which had been found in the ruined forge, carried back here, literally on the backs of the men, then bolted together. Fortunately, two of the men in the company had been blacksmiths before the war. Tearing out boards from the animal stalls, they had even managed to make rather comfortable benches circling the stoves. Each man had his claimed spot. Many of them had prowled around, found old grain sacks, and stuffed them with straw, dried moss, and leaves for cushions. Fights as to who owned what had been avoided by Peter, who concocted some ink
from lampblack and a bit of linseed oil, stenciling the names of the owners on each.

The stoves only used a fraction of the wood of an open fireplace. As the headquarters guard company, they had hung on to their possession. In many a regiment, some officer would have laid claim to the precious find and carted them off to his own cabin. There had even been some concern when a colonel of the Massachusetts Line had spotted the arrangement, but Harris had simply told him to take the matter up with the general, and the precious stoves had stayed in place.

The storm outside was in full blast now. In spite of all their efforts to insulate the barn, the wind thundered through the eaves of the upper level, icy gusts eddying down into where they were gathered, the ragged tents strung together to form their inner shelter fluttering. Flakes of snow melted and then dripped upon them in moist droplets.

Harris made a suggestion that after their meal they take a half hour or so of what he called “the plastering detail,” scraping up more manure from the pigpen and cattle stalls, cooking it up into a paste to try to seal off the cracks in the walls of the upper level, but there were no volunteers and he let it pass.

Peter, who had assumed something of the task of firekeeper for the stoves, given that he had first found them while prowling around the ruins of the forge, put on a heavy canvas glove, gingerly pulled open the door to the firebox of each, and shoved in more wood.

Putnam’s foraging party had hit upon a real trove earlier in the day before the storm settled in. A quarter-mile out toward the east, they had found a couple of dead ash trees and a birch, down in a tangled hollow that others had not yet ventured into, the trees apparently knocked over in a storm a couple of years before and then covered over with vines and brambles. The wood was well seasoned, not as green as what so many of the men were trying to burn to keep warm. They had fallen upon the treasure with a will, fetching several two-handed saws and then bringing each log back to be split inside the barn. After some democratic debate, which had lasted all of about thirty seconds, they all agreed that this was their find alone, Putnam and company not foraging for the general but simply out prowling about on their own in search of wood or the few hares or pheasants that still survived in the area—thus all the wood was theirs. Fortunately, the storm had shadowed their efforts as they smuggled a good half-cord into the barn to be split.