Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (32 page)

He smiled when he overheard that the two were brothers and the brawl a nearly weekly affair between them. Still, he was a bit surprised when the man who was knocked nearly cold stood up, the sergeant helping him don a captain’s jacket, his brother in the ragged uniform of a private.

He crossed an open field, the parade ground, rarely used, and then saw ahead the low, squat cabins of one of the hospitals. He got up the nerve to step into the nearest. Soldier or not, the stench was near to overpowering. The room was dimly lit by the fireplaces blazing at each end. Bunks were filled to overflowing, the bunks pegged four high above each other from nearly the floor to the ceiling. A woman was carefully feeding broth to a young soldier whom she was holding as if he were a child. Another woman sat by the fire, reading aloud from a Bible. At first no one noticed his presence. It was hard to breathe, and he just stood for a moment, then caught the eye of a soldier in a bunk at shoulder height to him.

“General Washington?” the man whispered.

He nodded and stepped to his side.

“You will soon be well,” Washington offered, again feeling awkward, his words lame, for the man was little better than a skeleton. From the stench it was obvious he was in the final throes of the flux, body wasting away.

The man extended a hand, which Washington grasped. The man tried to force a smile as if to reassure him.

“You will soon be well,” Washington whispered.

The woman reading the Bible had stopped and looked at him. Standing, she came to his side.

“Now, Vincent, the general is right. Rest easy.”

The soldier looked to the woman but this time shook his head, tears welling up.

“You wrote my letter home,” he whispered.

She nodded in reply.

He let go of the general and rolled on to his side, facing the wall.

She pulled the single filthy blanket up over his bony shoulders.

Feeling as if he was an intruder, Washington went out the door, and the woman followed.

“Sir?”

He turned to face her.

“The rumor about food, are we out again?”

“For the hospitals, no,” he replied and at least this was true.

“But medicines? We have nothing.”

“I know. I am trying.”

She leaned forward and began to cough. A deep rasping wheeze with each indrawn breath.

“You are sick, you should not be out here,” he paused, “or in there, either.”

“What else am I to do then?” she announced, forcing a smile.

“I could order you to rest.”

“Thee can order as thee pleases, sir. And I shall disobey. This is the duty God gave me.”

He stared at her intently, bracing her as she was seized by more shuddering coughs.

She stopped, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, and in the darkness the splotches of blood looked black.

“I should go back. Vincent has not much longer. I should be with him.”

He nodded, squeezing her shoulders.

“God be with—with thee,” he hesitated, adopting the Quaker manner of speech.

“And with thee.”

She returned to the hospital hut. He stood alone for long minutes in the storm.

He walked alone thus most every night. It was the time to gauge the mood, the sense of his camp, his army. The suffering was beyond any he had
ever imagined this war would bring. At times he felt it would indeed break him.

And how would General Gates handle all of this if he took command? The thought haunted him. He had long drilled himself since early manhood to think not of himself. A gentleman, a leader, did not bring personal considerations into such equations. But these men and now these women?

One ill-chosen response, one flash of temper, of self-serving behavior or blame-casting, one day of failed leadership could shatter the fragile core that held this army together. And in humility he knew that he was the center, the core of what was holding this last fragment of an army, of a Revolution, together.

He turned and started the long walk back to his headquarters, facing into the eye of the storm, hat now pulled low, not to conceal but to keep the icy gusts out of his eyes.

At last gaining the gate, he paused for a moment to catch his breath. That was disturbing. He was no longer a man of twenty, he was going into his forty-seventh year—by the old calendar it was only a few days off. He at last opened the gate and approached the house. The same sentry was in place. Not seeing his general approach, Peter had rested his musket against the doorsill and was vigorously beating his arms around his chest and stamping his feet. At the sight of Washington’s approach he quickly grabbed his musket and came to attention.

“Your relief should be along any minute, Private,” Washington offered.

“ ’Tis a bitter night.”

“Sorry, sir,” he offered.

“You are doing your duty well, son. I hope a warm fire awaits you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He went to open the door for the general, but Washington took the knob himself and opened it, then quickly closed the door behind him as an icy gust blasted around him.

“George?”

He was delighted to see Martha standing on the staircase, wrapped in a heavy blanket.

She hurried down to help him off with his wet cape and hat, hanging them up. His staff, in the kitchen, stood up, ready for orders.

“Any news while I was away?”

“No, sir. Nothing.”

“Fine, then, gentlemen,” he hesitated, looking over at Martha for a moment.

“Time to retire, then.”

He felt a bit self-conscious going up the stairs with Martha following. It felt strange to have her in the bedroom, where he had slept alone for over a month. She had set out a pitcher of warm water for him to wash his hands and face. He thought of the hand he had grasped of the man dying of the flux, wondering if Dr. Rush’s theory might be true that such contagions could be spread by touch and just by breathing the same air.

He scrubbed his hands thoroughly with the rough cake of lye soap. Martha helped him doff his uniform jacket and vest and then insisted upon helping him with his ice-caked boots, setting them close, but not too close, to the crackling fireplace.

He felt suddenly shy as he removed his breeches, which she took as well and hung up by the fireplace while he slipped between the covers. Merciful heaven, the sheets were warmed by several bricks she had set in the fire earlier, fished out, and wrapped in towels. It was a comfort Billy Lee never thought of.

She blew out the candle by the washbasin, dropped the blanket she had wrapped around herself, and settled in by his side.

It had been far more than half a year since they had been alone. And yet now? This moment?

He thought of the Quaker woman, the icy chill of the hospital cabin, barely touched by the fires within, the father with his dead son, the rough-hewn cabins filled with men shivering on this cold winter night, knowing their stomachs would be empty again come morning.

She snuggled in by his side, his arm around her.

“My dear,” he finally sighed, “I need to think awhile,” he whispered, embarrassed.

“I understand,” she sighed, drew closer to his side, and then drifted to sleep.

Long after she had gone to sleep, he stared up, the flicker of light from the fireplace dancing on the ceiling while outside the cold wind rattled the shutters, windowpanes frosted over. And thus he would still be awake with the first light of dawn, lost in thought and prayer.

Philadelphia
February 12, 1778

It was a glorious Sunday afternoon, the weather almost springlike, with a warming breeze wafting over the city from the southwest, such a welcome change from the storms of the week before. The dark skies of the previous days were gone, replaced with a deep, warm blue, more like an April morning than a winter day with spring still far off.

Most of the officers of the army were engaging in the weekly ritual of the Sunday promenade along the Philadelphia dockside, joined by those citizens of substance who wished to show their loyalty and comradeship with the higher ranks in service to the Crown.

But Allen van Dorn was unaware of those strolling by, other than keeping a wary eye out for superior rank and offering the proper salute, which could be tiresome since it seemed on this day that nearly every officer, British and Hessian, was out and about, enjoying the fine break in the weather. He was lost in thought, pausing to gaze up at the forest of masts of the dozens of ships that lined the wharf, some of them heavy oaken frigates, along with brigs and sloops of the Royal Navy. Beside them were transports, supply ships, merchantmen, and even a few whalers, their crews Loyalists. Having fled their home ports in rebel New England, they were now based here.

The excitement of an hour or so ago had caused a crowd to gather as a fast packet from London, bearing the latest dispatches for the army, had tied off at the Market Street wharf. Word was already sweeping the streets about the news from France. He had stood at the edge of the crowd. Far too many officers of superior rank were pressed up to the gangplank demanding that their
personal letters and packages were to be handed over before all the others. Near fights and challenges of duels had erupted when some young earl took umbrage that a mere colonel of infantry had pushed ahead of him.

“Lieutenant van Dorn! I say, van Dorn!”

He turned and saw that it was Captain André, with both Peggy Shippen and Elizabeth Risher in tow. He felt a thrill of delight, not having seen Miss Risher since the party. André had chided him more than once: He had by all reports repeatedly shown bravery on the battlefield, thus why not venture a frontal assault, go to her dwelling, and see what came of it, or at the very least pen a note to thus convey his interest.

He had not pursued either suggestion. Philadelphia was a city seething with intrigue, and though he trusted Miss Risher, he knew her parents as well. How would they react to his attempt? They would never see him as the proper sort of suitor. If victory in the end should go to the English side, then without doubt they would hope to make a proper arrangement with a proper officer, and not a Loyalist from a provincial village. And if the British side should eventually lose? Many parents with an eye toward the future were keeping watchful eyes on their daughters, cautioning them to wait until the campaign was resolved before extending any kind of serious attention. Besides, they did know his family, the fate of his brother Jonathan and the role he had played at Trenton, and were the type that would spread rumors about his own loyalty even though General Grey had dismissed such speculation when he put him on his staff. Of course, part of the reason Grey had taken him on was his intimate knowledge of the land and its people, from Trenton to the Jersey coast, which he had often traveled over with his father on family business. And that, as well, would stand against him with the Rishers, for he was the son of a tanner.

But at this moment, he pushed those concerns aside as André approached, his normally sanguine features aglow with delight.

“They came!” André announced, holding up a sheaf of papers.

Others were turning to watch as André came up to Allen and, as if presenting an award, handed the package over to him.

The package and wrapping were torn open, and within…within was a treasure.

He scanned the first sheet—it was the music by Mozart!

Scanning the lines, he translated the notations, in his mind, to the sound of Franklin’s glass harmonica.

Good heavens, though, it was most difficult—on the second page, a
fugue ran for a dozen stanzas that required all ten fingers. At most he had mastered four fingers, a few brief moments of chords using six fingers…but this would demand quarter-and eighth-notes, with all ten fingers at play.

On a harpsichord he might have been able to do it with a little practice, but on Franklin’s magical instrument?

And yet, when he tore his gaze from the pages and looked up at André, and particularly Miss Risher by his left side and Miss Shippen at his right, what could he do?

“Give me a few days,” he announced, trying to force a smile of confidence.

That was something he had quickly learned by serving in this army. At times skill and true ability did not count in the slightest. It was the front, the bluster, the forward show that counted for so much here. André, though still a mere captain, exuded that. He had a certain flair, a self-confident tone of voice and manner that equaled and could trump that of any nineteen-year-old earl or duke demanding command of a brigade because of his lineage and connections to the king.

“So, Lieutenant, think you can master some Mozart in time for our party come Saturday?”

Considering his musings about having the right flair, he looked back down at the incredibly complex sheet of music, studied it for a moment, then nodded gravely.

“Consider it done, sir,” he replied. It would mean committing himself to long nights of practice without sleep in order to be able to give a halfway decent performance and not embarrass himself or André. At least with the harmonica, unlike the harpsichord, volume could be controlled by applying just the lightest tough to the rotating glass, so that he did not have to fear awakening the staff and General Grey over the next week.

“Splendid, my good fellow!” André cried, clapping him on the back while taking the precious sheet music back.

“Amazing talent, this Mozart,” he waxed enthusiastically, holding up the package. “I scanned it briefly, letting it play in my heart—and to think this composer is younger than us! To have such talent.”

“But would you trade it for the ability to command a regiment in the field?” Miss Shippen asked, smiling boldly.

André looked over at her.

“Which would you prefer?” he asked.

She smiled coyly.

“I think…” She paused, and the display caught Allen in the wrong way. It
was obvious she was playing the flirt. “I think a soldier is more to my liking. These musicians are such flighty types, almost as bad as writers. Did I tell you I actually was forced to eat dinner once with that detestable Thomas Paine?”

“Well,” André offered, “he does have a certain talent with the quill, even if it is claptrap and treasonous rot that he writes.”

Allen said nothing. Her mention of Tom Paine struck him like a bolt. The memory of his brother Jonathan, clutching the waterlogged, tattered pamphlet as he died.

“Paine can go to hell. Thousands have died because of what he wrote and he is still alive,” Allen snapped.

André looked at him and smiled, Peggy laughed at his exclamation, but Elizabeth was just silent.

“Oh, enough of him, he’ll be dead from drink within the year, I hear,” André announced, stepping away from the group and motioning for them to follow along, leaving the growing, clamoring crowd around the packet ship behind.

They stepped around a gang of laborers off-loading a light sloop with steeply raked masts, André explaining that it was a prize ship, yet another French smuggler captured with a load of powder, a dozen fieldpieces, and other assorted accoutrements for the rebels.

“Captain of the frigate that took her, the
Hermes
, is a cousin twice removed. His share of the prize money should fetch a thousand pounds or more, I hear.” He sighed. “Perhaps I should have gone for the navy after all.”

“And missed wintering here with us in Philadelphia?” Peggy asked.

He pressed her hand in closer against his side.

“Of course I chose to serve where my king might need me,” he replied, and Allen looked over at him, seeing the touch of a sarcastic look as he gazed back at the booty being off-loaded.

A man with proper connections could, of course, buy his way into command even of a regiment, but far more sought after were high postings with the Royal Navy, for there indeed was the prize money. But that took, in turn, money and proper connections, unless one was willing to enter as a mere midshipman and endure years of danger and hardship in order to rise. André had neither the time for one nor the money to purchase position other than where he now was.

There was, of course, the prospect of quick promotion offered by war, as voiced in a favorite regimental drinking toast, “to a long war or a bloody plague.”

André gazed back longingly at the captured sloop and then pulled his attention away.

“So, have we all heard the news?”

“Only a few odd bits,” Elizabeth replied. “Everyone was so excited and jostling about.”

“And you and Miss Shippen saw that jostling crowd as your opportunity to slip off from your chaperones,” André retorted with a grin.

“Something like that,” she replied, smiling.

“And thus I found them,” André announced. “Two fair maidens, tossed upon a lonely sea of rude majors, gouty colonels, and coarse civilians clamoring for news. I of course rescued them. And having spied you out earlier, upon receiving my long anticipated package I thought it might interest you.” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a folded sheet of paper. “The
London Gazette
, dated the fourth of January this year,” he announced. They slowed as André held the paper up and turned so that the warm afternoon sun was over his shoulder. He scanned the paper for a moment as if withholding some great secret, Peggy leaning up on his arm to catch a glimpse.

“Oh, the usual deaths of barons and kings, some sort of trouble in the Maldives and India, the usual things. Oh heavens, a plague reported in Persia. I do see that Coleridge and Sons are offering the finest silks newly arrived from China…” His voice trailed off as he played out his game of indifference. “Hmm, no really fresh news here.”

His features, so light a moment before, finally turned grim as he scanned what everyone on the street was already talking about.

“Though there is something about Saratoga.”

“That’s the first report out of London, isn’t it?” Allen asked.

André looked over at him, no mirth in his eyes, and nodded gravely.

“Poor Johnny. He will never live it down. A good man, Burgoyne. The blame is not all his by any stretch.”

Allen found himself looking around, hoping that no one had heard such a cavalier response. Few in this army would dare to put the blame for the disaster anywhere other than at the feet of General “Johnny” Burgoyne. Though all of them, including General Grey, were struck incredulous back in August when the army had boarded ship in New York, not to sail up the Hudson to meet Burgoyne in a grand pincer movement that would have shattered the rebels’ northern army and sealed off New England, but instead to sail in the opposite direction to seize Philadelphia.

The campaign south instead of north had struck many a young officer as
absurd: sailing all the way down to the Virginia Capes and the entry into the Chesapeake Bay, then turning north to sail all the way back to near Wilmington. It had taken nearly a month, while all knew that Burgoyne, in the northern wilderness, fully assumed that the Howe brothers would appear any day, drive off the bedeviling enemy surrounding him, and achieve a stunning victory.

Instead, their action, though giving them Philadelphia, had given the rebels Saratoga.

André scanned the report, lips pressed tight, features suddenly grim.

“Parliament is demanding an investigation. Report that Whigs in Dublin celebrated by dancing in the street and hanging Burgoyne in effigy, damn them.”

He sighed and shook his head.

“What of France?” Elizabeth asked.

“Oh, yes,” he replied rather absently, all merriment of but moments before gone.

“A report that at Versailles a grand illumination was ordered by the king, with fireworks and numerous salutes fired in honor of the rebel victory and its glorious leaders.”

He scanned further.

“Our ambassador to the court of Louis XVI has returned to London in protest. The correspondent reports that the king has formally acknowledged the presence of Mr. Franklin at a royal reception,” he paused, “and that a recognition of the rebel government and with it a declaration of war are expected within the month.”

Muttering a foul curse, he crumpled up the precious paper and threw it down on the pavement. A street urchin swept in and snatched it before it hit the cobblestones and was off with his prize, which would surely fetch sixpence or even a shilling this day.

André turned away from his friends and walked down to the edge of the street and docks, stopping at last to look out over the Delaware, which was tossed by whitecaps from the southwesterly breeze. His arms were folded across his breast, head lowered.

Peggy went up and slipped her hand back under his arm. He looked down at her and forced a smile.