Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (33 page)

“My apologies, my dear,” he said, and looked back at Allen and Elizabeth.

“Apologies, most ungentlemanly of me.”

“Understandable,” Allen replied.

“It could have been ending by now,” André said, voice filled with bitterness. “We should be back in New York at this very moment, having sallied northward to first relieve Burgoyne, seize the Hudson Highlands, and then, with Burgoyne’s army swelling our ranks, the northern rebels shattered, New England would be entirely cut off. Then time enough in the spring to march on this city, take it, and end the war before summer.”

Yet again Allen looked around cautiously, nervous that someone might overhear his friend’s lament. It was, of course, the complaint of nearly all when sitting together late at night over a bottle of brandy and cards, but most undiplomatic to be voiced out on the streets of the former rebel capital on a Sunday afternoon. If one of Howe’s staff overheard and marked André down, any hope of advancement for him would be shattered, even if his assessment was indeed true.

“Not now, sir,” Allen whispered. “What is done is done. We’ll talk of it later.”

“He’s right,” Elizabeth offered. “Please sir, moderation is best at this moment for you.”

André looked over at her and smiled.

“Thank you, Miss Risher. Good counsel, even from someone who I suspect is a rebel at heart.”

Her features did not change in the slightest, nor did she reply.

He laughed good-naturedly.

“Please do not take offense, Miss Risher.”

“Well, I am certainly not one of such persuasion,” Peggy announced.

He looked down at her and smiled.

“Oh, of course not, my dear.”

André looked over at Allen.

“What do you think?”

“Not my place to say, sir.”

“Allen—it is Allen, isn’t it? At least last time we talked I recall that being your given name,” he announced with a smile.

“Yes, sir.”

“And out here it is John, so drop the sir.”

Allen did not reply.

“What do you think, Allen?”

“Do you really want my opinion?”

“I wouldn’t ask otherwise. Let’s call this our little conspiracy, Allen.” As he spoke, he motioned for him to draw a little closer.

Allen stepped closer and noted, for the first time, that there was the hint of brandy on André’s breath. Was he drunk? If not, he was without doubt being indiscreet.

“It is hard news.”

“Oh, really? War with France, it is inevitable. Every twenty years or so we have a war with France, and maybe once every hundred years we ally with them for a time. So no shock there. Might as well have at it again—after all, we are soldiers and war is our trade. So business will be good come summer.”

Allen nodded. “It troubles me that my own people would ally with the very enemy we fought less than twenty years ago.”

“Political necessity. But then again you Americans seem to favor some notion of war being a moral question rather than one of political reality. So it might be distasteful to some to ally with a former enemy against your fellow Englishmen, but then again, such is war.”

Allen could detect the bitterness in André’s comment.

“I want this absurdity to be over with, Allen. Why your Washington and company hang on in Valley Forge is beyond me. You’ve seen the reports—as have I, from our scouts and spies. They are dying by the score every day. They only built the last of their so-called shelters within the last week. They sustain themselves on a ration a day that we would sneer at and throw into the gutter for the dogs. When will they just give up?”

“When they are beaten and not before,” Allen said quietly.

André turned to look at him, and now there was a glint of anger in his eyes. “

When? Poor Johnny and his men, but one small part of our armies. Yes, I denounce this move here rather than going to his aid, but, good God, man, we’ve beaten Washington in every battle except for a few minor skirmishes a year ago.”

Minor skirmishes. He looked over at Elizabeth. She said nothing, but he sensed that she was thinking of Jonathan and his death.

“You want my honest opinion, sir,” Allen asked. “It’s John, remember, Allen. For the moment it is John.”

“Then I will tell you.”

He hesitated, looking at Peggy, wondering for an instant if this night she would share every word she heard. He could see curiosity in Elizabeth as to where he truly stood.

“You will have to put this Revolution in the grave,” Allen said. “No more coy games of march and countermarch and then settling in here for the winter and hoping that the rebels will just melt away.”

Frustrated, he looked back to the southwest, into the warming breeze. Out in the countryside this breeze was wiping away the last of the snow of the week before. Another day or two and the roads would be dry enough to support light infantry; a day or two after that, the entire army.

“One forced march could put us in front of Valley Forge. Then if it snows, rains, freezes, whatever God sends, we are in front of Valley Forge. If need be we endure what they are enduring within sight of their lines. If the weather turns foul we endure it as they have endured it. Then the first fair day after that we sweep them away in one hard push and end this damn war rather than sit out the winter here swelling our bellies, drinking ourselves senseless, and playing our games.”

André shook his head and laughed softly.

“My, you certainly do sound like a Frederick, or even a czarina.”

“I had an uncle who fought on the frontier in the last war, not like my father, who just sat in a garrison for a few months, but out on the edge of the Ohio Valley. He was out there for two years. I’ve heard Washington did the same. They learned from it, and if I dare to say it, if my uncle was still alive today, he would be at Valley Forge and laughing at us.”

“As your brother would be if still alive?” André replied, and Allen stiffened.

He was not sure how to react, and André, realizing he had overstepped, extended a hand in a calming gesture.

“Of course General Grey knows. He shared it with me because he knows you and I are friends, but I swear to you, upon my oath, that no others with the brigade know. It is safe with us.”

Allen still could not reply.

“I meant no insult, though your words just now were harsh.”

“They are how I see it. You asked me, sir, and I am telling you. Do not underestimate the capacity of the rebels for suffering. They will not melt away with the next winter storm. If anything, that will toughen them and make us weaker.”

André shook his head.

“You give too much credence to this Washington and his rabble.”

“I saw them, sir. I was their prisoner, as were you. You know how tough they can be.”

André shook his head, and Allen could sense he had hit a raw nerve. “Rabble, I tell you,” André said coldly. “My friend, do not be insulted by what I say. There is a profound difference between you and me.”

“And that is?”

“I have been on both continents, you have not.”

“So I am a provincial?” Allen let slip.

André laughed softly and shook his head, putting a reassuring hand on Allen’s shoulder.

“You Americans and your pride. No insult intended.”

“Nor taken,” Elizabeth interjected, and André offered her a courteous nod.

“You Americans take such pride in your heartiness, in this frontier of yours, which you claim shapes men such as Washington, Wayne, and Morgan. I will admit that, man for man, one of your yeomen, matched against some poor devil swept up from the streets of London or Edinburgh and pressed into a uniform because there is no alternative left…well, there indeed is a match. But what can be found in our army and not the rebels’ is discipline.”

He warmed to his subject, and Allen noticed that some of those strolling by slowed, taking in André’s heated words, more than a few of them officers out with their ladies, or what they attempted to pass off as ladies, by their side this sunny afternoon.

“I will not deny the courage of the rebels, at least at Germantown, or the year before at Trenton and Princeton. But in the moment of crisis, they lack discipline. They lack officers of character and breeding in whom they can trust. The rebels, an order is given and, good God above, the privates are ready to form a committee to debate it even as the cannonballs fly about their ears!”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“Our men can march fifteen miles in a day with eighty pounds on their backs, knowing that if they drop out there will be a damn good flogging unless they show a pass. The rebels, we’ve seen how they march, the roadside littered with cast-off equipment, every woodlot filled with their deserters running off. They are drunk when they should be sober and, by God, sober when they do have a right on occasion to be drunk as any soldier would be.

“Our army and the Hessians have been drilled on the battlefields of Europe. More than a few of them veterans of the Seven Years. And, yes, more than a few of them veterans of the last war here. Thus they know the ways of the wilderness and how to fight in it when need be. I daresay if poor Johnny had our brigade of light infantry with him to sweep ahead of his main body as he marched from Lake George to Saratoga, the damn newspapers in London would be printing a different story today.”

André had touched on the pride of the brigade he now served with, and Allen could not help but nod in agreement. In his heart, though, he suspected that in the end they would have gone into captivity as well. A brigade of light infantry, no matter how brilliantly trained for fighting in rough terrain and wilderness, would collapse if cut off from rations, ammunition, and resupply, as Burgoyne’s men were.

“Our men can fire four volleys a minute and sweep the field before them, even if they are hollow-chested consumptives from the streets of London. The rabble? After the first volley, all they know how to do is run when they see the solid red lines of infantry advancing toward them with bayonets lowered.”

He finished with a flourish. A number of those passing by, slowing, heard his statement and offered polite applause. A few cried out, “Hear, hear! Well said, Captain!” and then moved on.

André, the touch of the showman in him, realizing he had gathered an audience, smiled and nodded in reply.

Allen stood silent. The mention of bayonets conjured the memory of Paoli, the wounded on the ground screaming for mercy. This army dismissed it, even held an inquiry, exonerated Grey, and praised him. But the rebels? He could imagine that the memory of it still seethed and that there might someday soon be a terrible reckoning, especially if Wayne and his men ever received a chance to square off against Grey and the light infantry in an even match.

André looked straight at him and shook his head.

“You disagree.”

“I wish for nothing more than a final victory of our arms and an end to this bloody war.”

“But you do disagree?”

“Suppose this winter they learn discipline.”

“What?”

“Discipline, sir. What are they doing up there at Valley Forge?”

“Starving and freezing, though maybe today they are sitting outside their huts, and while we enjoy this afternoon promenade they are picking lice out of their shirts and beards.”

He looked to the two ladies and nodded. “Forgive me for such coarse references,” he said with a smile.

“But suppose they do learn discipline this winter?” Allen pressed. “Maybe not matching us volley for volley, because that takes years of training, but discipline enough to hold their lines, take casualties, maneuver, and keep on fighting. God help us if they do master that.”

“Then it shall be a most interesting fight come spring,” André replied, still smiling.

“No insult intended to any of you,” André sighed. “I am carried away by the moment. Come, my friends, let us return to Dr. Franklin’s house and see what this latest work by Mozart sounds like on his amazing instrument.”

André led the way, turning back southward along the dockside. They passed the captured sloop with its equipment. So desperately needed by the rebels now, it would just sit in a warehouse, for the army was bloated with such supplies. They pressed around the edge of the crowd that was still gathered around the packet ship, officers and even some enlisted men lined up, calling out their names and regiments, hoping for a cherished letter or package from across the wide sea. André and Peggy were a bit ahead by now, Elizabeth falling in by Allen’s side.

He could see she was looking around warily, and then relaxed once clear of the crowd.

“Guess your father gave up on you and went home,” he offered.

She laughed softly.

“Peggy’s family is all but throwing her at the good captain, but my parents…,” and she sighed, smiling but shaking her head.

“I will vouch for your safety and honor,” he offered.

“Precisely the point, Allen van Dorn.”

“In other words?”

“You know as well as I do how my parents stand.”

“In other words, I’m just a provincial, not a proper officer?”

She came closer to his side and to his amazement slipped her hand under his arm.

“Precisely, good sir.”

He looked at her and saw the blush coming to her cheeks.

Dare he hope?

“Why did you not call upon me? Or at least write?” she asked in the most forthright manner.

Caught off-guard, he could only stammer, “I thought you would…” and his voice trailed off.

“May I ask a question?”

“Anything.”

She hesitated, looking over her shoulder and to either side.

“Why are you in that uniform?”

“Miss?”

“You heard me.”

“I think it is obvious, isn’t it?” he finally offered, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know you well enough to know you are not a turncoat. That you believe in what you are doing. But still, Allen, I was amazed when I met you at the party last month, though I did hear of your capture and release.”

“So you are a rebel?” he whispered.

“Of course I am.”

“And Miss Shippen?”

She gave a snort of disdain. “Loyalist if the uniforms in town are red, patriot if they are blue or homespun.”