Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (40 page)

“Oh, I could just see McDonald from South Carolina and his precious command of thirty-eight men being told to relinquish his precious rank of colonel,” Laurens announced, and the others laughed in agreement.

Von Steuben sensed this was definitely a losing fight for now and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“We can worry about that later. But for now, do I have your support?”

The room fell silent and finally there were nods of approval and muttered, “I’m with you, sir,” and “Aye, it’s about time.”

“Perhaps it was impolite of me to share it with you gentlemen first, rather than going straight to His Excellency, but enthusiasm got the better of me,” he announced.

It was little short of a bold-faced lie. He had already mentioned his scheme
to General Washington, who had suggested this exact maneuver, since he was most certainly treading on the territory of every regimental commander in the army. Winning the junior officers over was crucial, and though an order from the top down would have won their required respect, it would not have necessarily won their support.

“Fine, then. I shall submit this report in the morning to the general, and I pray, gentlemen, that I shall see you shortly upon the drill field.”

Alexander Hamilton, who was in on the scheme, stood up, signaling that the dinner and conversation were at an end.

“General von Steuben, I think you are taking the necessary steps we have all been praying for,” he announced, and the others joined in with their congratulations.

Von Steuben went to the door, and as each of the young officers departed, he warmly shook their hands while Vogel fetched their hats and capes. The weather outside was turning far colder, wind backing around and carrying with it the scent of a storm, perhaps snow by morning.

Finally, only Lafayette and Hamilton remained. A subtle gesture on his part had conveyed to them that he wished them to linger for a few more minutes.

He turned to Lafayette and offered a bow.

“Your sacrifice of brandy, sir—I hope someday to redeem it.”

Lafayette smiled.

“To a worthy cause, though heaven knows when my family shall be able to smuggle another case through. Let us pray it is soon.”

Von Steuben looked at the two, took a deep breath, and then finally delved into what he had been dreading for months but knew had to be faced.

“Sir, you addressed me as General,” he finally said, looking at Hamilton.

Hamilton’s response was polite but obviously a bit confused.

“Well, sir, that is the rank you did hold under Frederick the Great.”

“Well, sir, how shall I venture this?” he replied, now nervous.

“There is a concern?” Lafayette offered.

“And that is?” Hamilton offered.

He cleared his throat.

“General might not be the exact term applied to me when I served with Frederick.”

The two were silent as they gazed at him. “Well, you see…,” and his voice trailed off.

He had deliberately let Laurens, now so enthusiastic a follower, leave the
gathering before venturing this delicate point. He had played the game well enough with Gates, the buffoon, and ever since arrival on this shore, but sooner or later, rumors of the truth would dog him. He had never been a general; he had served on the General Staff in Berlin for only the briefest of times before being sent off; even his title of baron was a purchased one by his grandfather. His service with Catherine had come about solely because he had been a prisoner of war, and at war’s end, when released, had briefly served her addled husband the Czar Paul. After she had murdered Paul, she had found it convenient to employ an unemployable German officer to try to whip her army into shape.

He knew that sooner or later the rumors would follow him across the ocean. He had debated it ever since arriving in Boston, where, to his surprise, the American agents in France, Deane and Franklin, had inflated his resume to the highest of ranks. In the boiling pot of American politics, sooner or later the rumors and charges would catch up. In just the last week he had come to respect Washington more than any officer he had ever served. If von Steuben were attacked after given a place of confidence, it would be an embarrassment to Washington and could only be answered in turn by a single action, resignation on his part.

Best to venture at least some of it now and then hope for the best.

“Your rank?” Hamilton ventured. He looked at him hopefully.

“I think, sir, no slight upon their honor, sir, but I daresay that in their enthusiasm for our cause, certain, how shall I say, exaggerations have been made on my behalf by your American agents in Europe before I took ship to this shore.”

Hamilton did not reply; Lafayette stepped closer, looking straight into his eyes.

“Are you saying, sir, that your commissioning papers with the Prussian and Russian armies might be not as they first seem?”

He did not reply.

“Nor your rank of nobility?”

Again he did not reply.

Lafayette remained silent and then threw back his head and laughed.

“I am a marquis. But where else in this world at the age of nineteen can I be a general?”

Hamilton, who understood French, shook his head and laughed softly.

“Welcome to America. I’d like to think we check such things at the border and count more on what you know and what you can do rather than who your
great-grandfather was. Claim what you will, General Baron von Steuben. But, by God, if your plan to remake this army works, for all I care you could have been a bloody sergeant in the service of the Khans. Just make it work.”

Von Steuben actually felt tears cloud his eyes as he looked at his two newfound friends.

“When I think the time is right, I will broach this with General Washington,” Hamilton offered, “but first let’s see how your drill works out.”

He could not help but clasp their hands.

“It will work,” he reassured them intensely, voice choked with emotion.

Valley Forge
March 7, 1778

“My God, you look like starving sons of bitches!”

Peter Wellsley understood just enough German to at least think that was what this man pacing before him was saying, though the translator pacing behind the German rendered it “starving dogs.”

A flurry of laughter ran through the ranks, especially from the Pennsylvania men who fully understood German.

“But I do see that you are soldiers,” he announced loudly.

There were now murmurs of approval.

Rumors had swept through the encampment that this man was setting up some kind of training school, and that only the best would be picked from each regiment to attend. It would mean relief from fatigue duty working on the fortifications, an extra ration of meat, and the promise of promotion. There were more than enough volunteers.

To Peter’s delight, General Washington had insisted that his entire headquarters company was to attend as well. There were a hundred men from the various units of the army, and fifty from the headquarters.

The day was cold and blustery, with occasional bursts of snow falling to the frozen ground. Briefly, weak sunlight would shine through the drifting clouds for a few minutes before another snow squall descended around them.

“We will train together every day for a month,” von Steuben continued. “We shall do so from eight in the morning until I tell you we are finished, and, by God, if that means marching in the dark, you will do so.”

His gaze now became determined.

“And I break my walking stick on your head if you do not listen right,” he announced, holding the stick aloft.

A few men muttered under their breath, but others laughed, seeing that he smiled as he made his threat.

“Now show me a proper line, two ranks deep.”

The men looked about, not sure who to form on. Several young officers with von Steuben began shouting orders, pointing to where two poles had been set in the ground, about forty yards apart, topped with dirty rags. The men shuffled over, forming up into lines as ordered, von Steuben watching, pacing up and down in front of them.

“That is a line?” he finally cried almost in anguish.

Many of the men leaned forward slightly, looking up and down the line.

“Stand at attention!”

They braced themselves. Von Steuben gazed sternly at them, shaking his head.

“First I want shorter men in the front rank, taller in the second. Then with each line I want shortest at the end, tallest at the center. Now do it!”

Peter looked around, not sure where to go.

The baron’s assistants stepped forward, walking down the line, pulling men out of the rank, moving them around like playing cards being reshuffled. It took a good ten minutes of sorting, some of the men complaining that they wanted to stand next to an old comrade or brother, but their protests were ignored. One of them announced he was quitting and began to stalk off, but was kicked back into the line by a sergeant. Finally they were properly arrayed.

Peter found himself near the center, in the front, with Harris by his right side.

“That looks better now,” von Steuben announced. “Now, I want you to say hello to the man to either side of you and shake his hand.”

He made an exaggerated gesture of shaking an imaginary hand, which drew some laughter. Peter nodded to Harris and turned to his left. A young man, features deeply pitted from smallpox, looked at him and offered a smile.

“Rob Boers of the Third New York,” the boy offered and they shook hands.

“Count off from the right by fours,” von Steuben ordered, and the count came down the line, Peter a number three, Boers a four.

“Good, we are all friends now,” von Steuben replied. “You may fall out and gather round me.”

This seemed easy enough, Peter thought, and he stepped out of the line with the others and walked toward von Steuben.

“You did not say thank you!” von Steuben roared. “Now fall back in line exactly where you were!”

There was a scramble, men bumping into each other, and the line reformed.

“No one move!” von Steuben shouted. “Now count off with exactly the same number you gave last time.”

It was a shambles. Peter was embarrassed to realize that he and Boers had shifted places.

The count-off finished, von Steuben walked slowly down the line and with his own hands shifted each man back into place, then ordered them to stand at attention.

“Now, my children, can we remember who our neighbors are?”

“Hell, Johnson here made the mistake, not me,” someone in the back rank complained.

Von Steuben eyed the protestor.

“And I break my stick over both your heads if you make the mistake again,” he announced.

“Now, again, fall out and gather round me.”

Several of the men sarcastically muttered thank-yous, but all knew the game, anticipating a shouted command to form ranks, though this time he did not play it as they thought. They gathered round and he smiled.

“Much will seem strange as we start,” he announced, “But there is reason for everything I do to you. It is like building a house. First we make foundation.” He gestured as if digging. “Without foundation the house will tilt and fall. Except for the mason and those who dig the holes, no one sees the foundation, but it is there and it will make the building strong. Do we understand?”

There were nods of agreement.

“Now, my children,” he said softly, “fall in and come to attention.”

The men scrambled back as ordered, and this time only two were out of place, the others around them cursing under their breath.

He had them fall out and do it again, and this time it was done right and he nodded with satisfaction.

“First lesson learned. From now on, you will always fall in exactly the same place in line. Always! That way, even if it is the middle of the night and there is an alarm, you will know where to stand.”

He ordered them back to attention, and for the men to shoulder arms. This done, he gazed along the line, then turned away, motioning for his staff
to gather around. There was a whispered conference for a moment, the others nodding their heads in agreement, and he turned back to face the line.

“Fall out to the rear and stack muskets by sections of four.”

There was some confusion as the men were shown where to stack arms at the end of the drill field, and then a shouted command for them to fall back in at the double time.

The line reformed, Peter feeling slightly strange without a musket in his hand. Nor did he like stacking his weapon with those of a group of men he didn’t know. As a member of the headquarters company, he took special care of his weapon, always insuring it was well oiled and polished, with not a speck of rust or dirt. More than one man, stacking arms, might return later to find a rusting flintlock in its place.

“First you will learn drill as you should learn drill,” von Steuben announced. “Everything in its proper time and place.”

“Company, attention!”

He kept them like that for nearly an hour, insisting on what Peter thought was absurd—that each man’s feet must be placed just so—shouting that they looked like mules and sheep otherwise. Hands were to rest on the crease of their trousers, if they had trousers, with fingers extended no matter how damn cold. Men to the left of the regimental flag-bearer, in this case one of von Steuben’s assistants holding a Continental flag aloft, were to have their heads slightly turned in his direction, so that the left eye was aligned with the row of buttons down the center of his uniform, if he had had a uniform, let alone buttons. Those to the right of the flag-bearer were to do the opposite, looking to their left with right eye aligned to the center row of buttons.

Throughout, von Steuben would offer comments, alternating between praise and then at times turning to one of his young French officers, shouting, “Curse at them good in English, damn it!” The comments that followed always drew subdued laughter.

As each man was checked in turn, commands were alternated between standing at ease, coming to attention, eyes front then toward the flag-bearer, the baron explaining that every man must learn to keep his eyes to the center, where the flag could always be seen, marking the position of the regiment in line, and with it the officer leading the way.

Just mastering these few things took up most of the morning. Finally, von Steuben was satisfied with the men breaking ranks, falling out, then returning to their position and coming to attention with heads turned properly.

Next he ordered them to remain at attention and take one step forward.

The resulting confused result caused another explosion, with him yelling at Du Ponceau to curse them again in English.

“I guess I shall have to be your father and teach you how to walk,” he shouted, and this time he did seem a bit exasperated.

“The proper step for a soldier in this army will be twenty-eight inches, not one inch more or less.”

As he paced up and down the line, his assistants to either flank stepped off a pace, hammered stakes into the ground, then took another pace, hammered stakes into the ground, and so on for five paces.

“With each step, I want this line to be perfectly straight. Now do as you are told. Forward one step!”

The line moved forward, men bumping into each other, stopping, leaning forward to see how they stood relative to the marking stake, von Steuben slapping the ground with his walking stick, pacing back and forth, glaring at them.

“Step!”

The line lurched forward.

“Step!”

At the end of five paces the line was still curved and bowed.

“About-face!”

Now, more confusion, with some turning to their left, others to their right, von Steuben launching into more invective, shouting that all the men were to turn the same way.

There was grumbling in the ranks, some whispering that a man should at least be able to turn the way he felt like it as long as he got himself faced about correctly.

The weather was turning colder, wind picking up, and von Steuben gazed at them, shaking his head.

“Go over to the fires, warm up, there’s soup waiting.” He pointed to where several large fires were burning at the edge of the parade field. The men gratefully broke ranks, Peter sticking with Harris and making his way over to the warming blaze.

“Damn crazy Dutchman,” someone muttered, “if I had known it was going to be like this, I’d of gone on sick call instead.”

“He’s got a point,” Harris offered.

“How’s that?” the complainer retorted, while they stood in line, pulling wooden bowls or tin cups out of their haversacks, each man receiving a ladle
of soup thick with potatoes and even some thin slivers of meat, though which kind of meat was purely a matter of speculation.

“Hell, we can barely march, let alone keep a line in a fight.”

“I joined this here war not to march around like a toy soldier. I joined it to fight.”

“That’s what he’s teaching us,” Harris replied.

“Still beats digging latrines or burial detail,” someone else muttered.

“I got seven weeks left,” another retorted, “and then be damned to all of it, I did my part and I’m going home.”

There were mutters of agreement from more than a few.

Peter said nothing, draining down every last drop of the soup and then using his finger to scoop out the last droplets and lick them clean before stuffing the bowl back into his haversack.

“Hey, we better look sharp,” Harris suddenly announced, and nodded to where von Steuben was standing.

General Washington was now with him.

“Well, damn it, maybe he can talk some sense into this German. We’re Americans, damn it, not Hessians.”

“How are you faring, Baron?” Washington asked, returning the drillmaster’s salute.

Von Steuben grinned.

“As is only to be expected, sir.”

“And that is?”

“Meaning no insult, sir, but they will need work, much work.” Washington nodded thoughtfully.

“You may proceed, Baron, and if it will not discomfort you, I would like to observe.”

“By all means sir, it is an honor.”

Washington rode off a discreet distance to the edge of the field and remained mounted, as von Steuben gave the command for the men to fall back into line.

Thankfully they did so without much trouble, each man finding his proper place, then automatically dressing on the center.

This time he detailed them to form squads, in columns of four.

“Perhaps if we dance in small groups we can learn the step quicker,” he announced, as it took several minutes for the men to shift from line into seven columns. He detailed off his assistants, who took over, moving the columns
off in various directions so commands to one would not confuse another standing nearby.

Von Steuben shouted the beat, “Step…step…step!” until his voice was nearly hoarse. There was some stumbling and confusion to start. One of the men caused a column to break down in confusion because one of his foot wrappings unraveled and the man behind him stepped on it, tripping both of them up. The unit broke down in gales of laughter, and von Steuben humored them by issuing a volley of good-natured curses, keeping the language toned down because the general was watching.