Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (34 page)

He could hear the cool dislike in her voice.

“You seem friendly enough with Captain André.”

She laughed softly.

“Allen, you really are a provincial. A lady can be charmed by a true gentleman regardless of uniform, but that does not mean she will set her cap for him. He is a noble soul and I wish he was on our side.”

“Rather than mine?”

“Yes, rather than yours.”

“And your feelings about my being in this uniform?”

“Oh, Allen, didn’t you hear me? I can be charmed by a gentleman regardless of uniform. Though in your case I just might set my cap for you.”

It felt as if his heart would stop. She sensed his reaction and laughed softly. “And, no, I am not some flirt such as Miss Shippen. I speak my mind as I see things.”

“Why me?” he blurted out.

“Maybe I like Mozart,” she said, raising her voice slightly, for they were approaching the front door of Franklin’s home, a servant holding it open. André, hearing her, looked back and smiled.

She drew closer. “My parents at times are out of town visiting my mother’s family. I will send word when they are. My servant is African. His name is David, and he can be trusted.”

He stammered, unable to reply.

They were at the door. Some of the windows were open in the warm air. It was time for tea, and there was an informal gathering within. All talked of the latest news from London and the prospect of open war with France. Boasts were offered that such a prospect would surely bring promotions to all of them by the time the war was finished.

André guided them into Franklin’s study, hurriedly going over to the harmonica. Several other officers and their companions were in the room. André announced that there was to be a concert. Two of the couples withdrew, but one of them stayed, a captain who sniffed that surely they were not going to crank up such a machine made by a damn rebel.

A sidelong glance from André stilled the protest. A comment in French and the captain stiffened, glared at André, and withdrew.

“What did you say?” Allen asked.

“Oh yes, forgot. You know German, not French. Rude of me.”

“What did you say to him?” Peggy asked.

“Just being rude, that’s all,” he laughed, and opening the package he set the composition on the stand by the side of the harmonica, eagerly motioning for Allen to sit down.

He looked at the sheets of music. At least thirty pages or more. Good heavens, this was not some simple piece for a harpsichord, it was the length of a concerto. Knowing André, the captain would be boasting about a concert for next weekend. There was many a sleepless night ahead.

He began to work the pedals, the drive belt turning the shaft upon which were mounted the crystal goblets, each one marked with a tracing of colored ink: yellow for C, dark yellow for C-sharp, light blue for G, and so on up the scale.

Unfortunately, the sheet music before him was not marked with colored inks. He would have to talk with André, to at least dot each note with the matching color on the harmonica if there was any hope of him mastering this piece in less than a week.

He dipped his fingertips into the bowl of chalk, studied the first few measures for a moment, took a deep breath, extended his hands, and lightly touched the spinning orbs of crystal.

He tried only six fingers. The second and third finger of his left hand were off by half a note, and he adjusted. Another deep breath, the next notes, another breath—far too long, of course, for Mozart opened this piece with his usual vigor. He slowly worked through the first few measures, tried a second time, and then nodded.

“Here goes,” he whispered, and at half-time at best, he managed the first line.

It was wonderful, absolutely wonderful. All else of this world was forgotten as Franklin’s machine turned notations of ink on paper and his feeble attempt to play them into a sweet, melodious blend of heavenly chords.

All was forgotten, the war, what they had just spoken of, even, for a moment, the presence of Elizabeth and her bold offer of a rendezvous.

“What is that god-awful wailing, I say?”

Startled, Allen stopped and looked up. The captain that André had shooed off was standing out in the hallway, several others gathered around him, shaking their heads.

André made no pretense now. He strode to the door and without comment slammed it shut, then turned back, smiling.

“Let’s forget about the rest of the world this afternoon, my friends. Pray, sir, please continue!”

Allen could see genuine excitement, even affection in André’s eyes, and indeed, all was forgotten for the moment as he turned back to the instrument, spindle whirling, glass orbs mounted on it a blur, casting rainbow patterns on the wall from the sunlight streaming in from the west-facing windows. He noticed something he had never taken in before, that this instrument was like one of Newton’s prisms, turning light into rainbows.

He let his fingers brush against the turning orbs, and this time played the first line as Mozart had intended it. And yet, even as he played, all else forgotten for the moment, he could not help but notice Elizabeth’s hand resting on his shoulder, squeezing it tight. He looked up at her to smile and noticed, to his astonishment and delight, that there were tears in her eyes as she gazed at him; and it seemed to him that, in that moment, she saw not a merchant’s son and soldier but his very soul.

Valley Forge
February 28, 1778

He had started the morning ride from near Morgantown, a pleasant region of rolling hills and what had once been prosperous farms, obviously tended by Germans, as witnessed by their neatness and apparent wealth. This new country did indeed hold promise, if they could ever win their independence. The land was rich. Here a peasant could own a hundred acres if he had the strength to clear it, and in a generation his sons could live like gentry if they worked hard enough and were frugal. The war, however, had reached this far westward. The barnyards looked empty, houses were shuttered, the few farmers about watching warily as his party rode past. No young men were in the fields, and the muddy lane that passed for a road was devoid of any traffic.

The day had turned warm—the snow on south-facing slopes, fallen several days ago, had melted away by midday; the ground was heavy with moisture. The road was barely passable due to the mud, and at times they had to turn off to trot across open fields. Turning a bend in the road, he was pleasantly surprised to be confronted by outpost riders, concealed within a woodlot that the road passed through. A barrier, concealed inside the woodlot, was across the road, and as he drew closer to the outpost a couple of rough-looking riflemen came out of the woods behind them, looking warily at this cavalcade of finely dressed officers in the uniforms of France and Prussia. Both of the sentries were dressed in their traditional dark brown hunting frocks, broad-brimmed hats, and ankle-length trousers, moving silently as if one with the woods.

The attitude of the young officer manning the barrier changed as soon as
L’Enfant presented their papers, informing him that they were from York, with orders to report to His Excellency General George Washington.

The young Pierre L’Enfant had been loitering at York for weeks, and it was Dr. Rush who suggested he join the baron’s staff. He seemed pleasant enough, spoke of his training as an architect whenever the opportunity presented itself…and von Steuben wondered if he was in fact a spy for Gates.

The fact that von Steuben had even made it here was something of a miracle. For several days it appeared that it was the intent of Gates and his War Board to keep him reined in tight. Only the assurances of his loyalty to Congress—and also the more pragmatic point that, if assigned to at least look around Washington’s camp, pay vouchers for staff and his own expenses would come from Washington’s purse rather than Congress—had helped sway the argument.

Day after day, adventure seekers had arrived at York, some with real credentials, others with crackpot schemes such as making fleets of ships that could sail underwater to run the blockade. The total swamped Congress. All of them had to be fed, housed, entertained until the wheat could be separated from the tons of chaff. Thus pushing the baron and his half-dozen retainers out the door had finally resonated with Rush and then Gates.

“Remember, sir,” Gates had insisted. “Your commission comes from here, your loyalty is here. I want a harsh and direct evaluation of the deficiencies that you see in Valley Forge and recommendations to Major General Conway as to their remedy.”

He had of course agreed…anything to get out of the bedbug-infested inn they had quartered him in.

The day’s ride had been pleasant, spirits were high with his lads, and now it seemed the adventure would truly begin.

“We’ve been expecting you, gentlemen!” one of the sentries announced, and he passed the word to a dispatch rider, who mounted and galloped off eastward, kicking up a spray of mud. The officer had obviously been ordered to delay them a bit, so von Steuben dismounted, calling his dog to heel. Azor was curiously sniffing the nervous young man. Von Steuben took him off into the woods so that he could relieve himself.

He returned to find the dozen enlisted men around the officer looking at him a bit wide-eyed, several vaguely offering salutes. He merely smiled in return, muttering “Good day, good day,” in English, and mounted.

“And these are soldiers?” L’Enfant asked in French.

“Let’s not judge yet,” von Steuben offered, though his impression was the
same. Only a few were clean-shaven. Even in the czarina’s army, men were expect to shave twice a week—beards were viewed as a sign of slovenliness, fit maybe for a Cossack or a Turk but not a proper soldier. Other than the officer, who had an epaulette on one shoulder and wore what appeared to have been, at one time, a uniform of brown with red facings, the rest were dressed in assorted castoffs, or just the ubiquitous brown or tan hunting frock. Several were barefoot. Only a couple wore what could be considered proper boots…and all of them stank like an open latrine. He did note that the musketmen shouldered weapons that were well tended, polished and with good flints. The riflemen toted long-barreled weapons, nearly as long as their owners were tall, and even on this mild day the locks were covered with oiled cloth to protect them from the damp.

They might be filthy and smell filthy, but they looked lean and tough, especially the riflemen, and he would think twice about challenging them to a fight in the woods that were their element. All reports indicated they were steady when combat was in backcountry and wooded terrain. But an open-field volley match with the British and Hessian line regiments supported by artillery, cavalry, and light infantry?

That was why he was here, and it was something he said little about to Gates, so intent was the man on his swarms of militia who would turn out for a month or two of service, win the war, and go home. That was barely time to teach just a company of men how to load and fire in unison, a technique essential if ever the British were to be met in an open-field fight.

A messenger returned, telling them they could proceed. As they approached the encampment area, a gentle breeze arrived, carrying with it the promise of a developing storm from the east, bearing with it the smoke from hundreds of fires. The first scent of it was pleasant, as it would be for any soldier: wood fires burning at midday as dinners were prepared. But other scents were on the wind as well, and even though he was a well-seasoned soldier, he still wrinkled his nose as they drew closer. The place smelled unhealthy, and he soon saw why as they trotted past a burial ground. Hundreds of mounds of earth dotted the hillside. Some were individual graves, but there were also stretches of ground of thirty feet or more that looked like filled-in trenches, with a couple of dozen wooden boards or slabs of wood poked in atop them. Sickeningly, it was obvious that more than a few of the graves had not been dug all that deep, for dogs and wild pigs had obviously been rooting into them, and thus the stench of decay hung in the air.

A party of men was standing around an open trench, several men standing in the open grave dug not much more than chest-deep, while corpses were being off-loaded from a two-wheeled wagon, carted over, and then handed to those in the grave, who unceremoniously put the bodies down and reached for others. No coffins, not even a winding cloth or blanket was there to cover the dead. The faces of the dead were locked in the rictus of their final struggles, some pale, emaciated, some pox-covered, others swollen and distorted. One of them hauled out was missing both his feet, the stumps from the amputation obviously fresh, blood dripping from the body.

Behind him, he heard L’Enfant gag and then vomit.

Some of the burial detail looked over at them, a couple nudging each other at the sight of the splendid Frenchie vomiting, joined a moment later by two more of his cavalcade.

“This is war, too, gentlemen,” von Steuben announced in French. “Get used to it, by God. Now show respect. They are watching us.”

An officer with the burial detail shouted for his men to continue their work but shot a dark glance at von Steuben, who remained motionless and then solemnly took off his hat, lowered his head, and put his hat to his heart, remaining thus until the last of the dead were pulled from the wagon.

A minister offered a quick prayer, and a ragged volley of but three muskets was fired over the open trench and the interment of nearly thirty men. The daily total of dead from the hospitals was finished. Those gathered around picked up shovels to fill the mass grave. Slightly upslope, others were already laboring on the trench for the next day’s business.

He put his hat back on.

“Ride on and look straight ahead,” he hissed.

Those following him did as ordered. L’Enfant came up to his side.

“I’m sorry sir,” the boy gasped, “the smell, and the sight of that poor man.”

“If you wish to be a soldier, lad, you’d best acquire the stomach for it. After Minden we buried five thousand like that.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied weakly.

“First time you’ve seen something like that, son?”

“Yes, sir,” he gasped and von Steuben was afraid the boy would vomit again.

“Think of something else. Breathe deeply, the air here is good now,” he whispered, “don’t shame yourself in front of them.”

A few battles or months in camp would harden him, or kill him, but he knew the talk around campfires tonight would be about how the new foreigners vomited. It would not reflect well on him.

Past the graveyard, they rode alongside half a dozen log huts, each nearly thirty feet long, with wattle and daub chimneys at both ends. The blanket covering into the one nearest the road was open, but he didn’t need to be told it was a hospital area. Dozens of pale, sickly men were outside, leaning against the south wall to soak up the feeble heat of the early afternoon sun. Several rested on crutches, minus a foot or leg. No one spoke as they rode by. Rough-hewn beds of planks covered by some fir branches were on the ground, men huddled on them. All the nurses were women. One—well dressed, middle-aged, gray hair tucked up under a “plain cap,” wool cape over her shoulders—looked like a woman of some distinction. She sat on a camp chair, holding a book that looked to be a Bible and reading aloud in English, more than a few of the sick turned to her, listening attentively. She caught his gaze for a moment, and he bowed from the saddle and she returned the salute with a nod of her head, but did not interrupt her reading.

The hospital area left behind, the party continued up the slope, no one speaking. The journey of over a month was nearing its end, but there was little enthusiasm in his group, the young French officers sobered by what they saw. Even his hound Azor stayed close to his side, obviously disconcerted by the alien scents and sights.

The low crest ahead was cut by earthworks, very rudimentary works, a sagging line of tossed-up earth and cut sod. L’Enfant sat up in his saddle to scan them.

“Amateur works,” he sighed. “No revetments, no bombproofs, no secondary line nor
cheveux-de-frise
, it is pathetic.”

“This is a new army,” von Steuben announced, “we are here to teach, not to criticize. For right now, remember we are their guests.”

He looked over at the young Frenchman, who was obviously filled with disappointment and more than a little disgust at what he was seeing.

Von Steuben forced a laugh.

“When I was in the service of the czarina, you should have seen me among the Cossacks loyal to the empress! Try to teach them how to dig a fortification? This will be easy, lad.”

L’Enfant did not look encouraged.

“It is either that or you can ride twenty miles to the south and see what the British might offer.” Now his voice was cold.

L’Enfant looked at him, a bit startled, but his cold gaze stilled any reply.

He turned and looked back at the rest of his companions.

“Remember, my friends, we have crossed an ocean and ridden our backsides raw this last month to come here. Here. This is where God has called us, and we might now say God help us all. But this is our lot. You do not win allies by berating them and showing them their shortcomings. You win them by offering your hand. It is either that or I suggest you turn about now and ride back to York and play some more politics.

“Now, do we understand each other? All of us?” And he said the last words in German, his servant Vogel quickly translating.

No one spoke.

“I will have no complaining. No saying they are doing everything wrong, because, by God, they have indeed stood against the British and my cousins from Hesse for two years and are still in the field. Do we understand each other?”