Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (43 page)

“And that is?” Allen asked.

“Clinton is also colonial by birth. He was born in Newfoundland, came of age in New York, and actually served in the colonial militia before taking a regular commission, returning only then to England and rising through the ranks. Of course his family in England was of help with that, but born a colonial nevertheless.”

“And thus some might say he understands the war here better than most,” Elizabeth offered.

André nodded.

“Exactly, and thus the rumors. He has a strong faction behind him in England. Some are saying he was right all along and that, if his advice had been followed, rather than a defeat at Saratoga, the rebel army there would have been trapped between two forces and annihilated. With the Hudson thus secured, the full strength of our army could have been turned against General Washington this year. That with our victory at Saratoga rather than that of Gates and his rabble, France would definitely have remained neutral.”

He sighed.

“It’s going to be a long war.”

He refilled his glass yet again and looked at Allen.

“Your thoughts?”

“As you said,” Allen replied, “it is not my place to question my superiors, especially when it comes to who commands.”

“Well, I think you can guess my thoughts,” André said, his features now impassive.

“Do you think we’ll start the new campaign soon?” Allen asked.

“Campaign?”

“Against Valley Forge?”

André returned his gaze to his glass, drained it, refilled it, and then shook his head.

“No.”

“Why not?” Allen asked. “The weather has been good for the last week, the frost is out of the ground, the roads are drying out. Now would be the perfect time to strike.”

“Not now. Not with the scent of a change of command in the air. Not with France declaring war. This is now the largest army we have in the Americas, but with France in the war, orders might come any day diverting us from what should have been done months ago.”

“And that is?”

“Finish it, rather than sit here, growing fat and lazy and making up plays. We could have finished it in December with a forced march on Valley Forge, but our leaders said it was over, and besides why fight when we could spend the winter in warmth and comfort, our bellies full, while that rabble in arms starved and melted away?

“But they didn’t melt away. They are still out there, ragged and starving, it is true, but they are still out there and we still just sit here.”

There was a bitter edge to his voice, and, realizing he had said too much, he waved his hand in dismissal, as if trying to wipe away what he had just said.

“Come, my friend, your turn to entertain us,” he announced, pointing to the harmonica. “I’ve done enough entertaining for tonight.”

Allen hesitated, but, with Peggy and Elizabeth now both urging him as well, he sat down in front of the instrument, pushing on the pedals to get the lathe turning. Dipping his fingertips into the bowl of fine powdered chalk, he finally touched one of the spinning crystal spheres, producing a single haunting note. Then, delighted to be able to show off how much he had been practicing since his barely adequate performance of the previous month, he applied four fingers, then six, and began the Mozart.

He concentrated on it intently, barely making a mistake, caught finally in the rapture of the sound. When at last he had finished he sat back with a sigh, the last chord drifting away.

There was no comment or applause. He looked around and was startled to see that only Elizabeth was in the room, standing behind him, looking down at him, a hand going lightly to his shoulder.

There was no one in the adjoining room across the hall and the silence was startling.

“They went upstairs,” she whispered.

He looked up at her. There was no look of shock or disdain. She was actually smiling. It was the way she was smiling, though…

“Would you walk me home?”

Barely a word was spoken as they walked the few blocks back to her home. For Allen it seemed like an eternity. The way she had looked at him. What did it portend?

As she approached the corner of her home, she slipped her hand into his and guided him down the carriageway to the back of the house and the servants’ entrance. The house was dark except for the glow of a lantern in the kitchen.

She did not stop at the door, as if to turn to say good night. He felt as if his heart would burst as she held his hand tight, squeezed it, looked to him with an almost childlike, mischievous smile, and put a finger to her lips to signal for him to be quiet.

She led the way in and for an instant his heart froze. Someone was standing in the kitchen, one of the family servants.

“David, this is the young man I was telling you about. David, this is Lieutenant van Dorn.”

“Sir,” and he nodded slightly.

Allen, inwardly shaking, could only nod in reply.

“My mother?” she asked.

“Asleep, missus. The doctor gave her an opiate so she could sleep.”

“The other servants?”

“This is their night off, missus. I am the only one here and they will return and go straight to their quarters, missus.”

“Thank you, David.”

“Allen, would you care for something to drink?”

“Miss Elizabeth?” There was indeed a trembling in his voice.

She laughed softly.

“A bottle of my father’s port, David. You choose the bottle.”

The man smiled and left the kitchen carrying a candle as he ventured into the basement.

Still holding his hand, she led the way out of the kitchen through the dining room and into the parlor. The room was dark, illuminated only by the glow of moonlight.

She sat down on the sofa, nearly pulling him down by her side. He sat nervous, silent, coming to his feet when David returned, bearing a silver tray upon which was an open bottle of port, two crystal goblets already filled, and a candle.

He set them down, smiled, and nodded.

“I am retiring, miss,” he announced.

“Thank you, David.”

“Good night to you, sir.”

He nodded, still not sure how to reply.

“And don’t worry, Mrs. Risher, she is fast asleep until dawn.”

Allen wondered if the man had actually winked at him.

David bowed again to the two and withdrew.

Allen stood dumbfounded and actually stepped away from the sofa, going over to the harpsichord as if to examine the sheets of music.

“If you play one note on that thing, you know it will wake my mother,” Elizabeth announced.

He looked back at her.

“Ah, Miss Risher, are you sure you are…” His voice trailed off as she laughed softly and patted where he had been sitting.

“Lieutenant van Dorn, surely the British army has taught you how to behave like a gentleman. Now come sit by my side and share some port with me.”

He did as ordered, draining off his goblet a bit too hastily while she sipped hers.

“You must think me a woman of terrible virtue to behave like this,” she finally said, breaking the nervous silence.

“No, miss…”

“For heaven’s sake, Allen, it’s Elizabeth. I wanted to dance with you and kiss you the first night we met back in Trenton. I’ve sat in my room alone night after night waiting for you to work up the courage to come call, so I resort to this.”

He looked over at her. She had her glass resting on the tray and ever so gently took his and set it down as well.

“Now, for heaven’s sake, young man, kiss me.”

He did as ordered, the sweetest order he had ever received, and was startled how she melted into his embrace.

She finally leaned back slightly, breaking their embrace.

“Allen van Dorn, forgive my boldness, but you have never done this before, have you?”

He wanted to lie but could not.

“With a lady, Elizabeth? Never.”

“Ah, but with someone not a lady?”

He thought of the few fumbled attempts in New York before the war, when he would go there with his father and slip off with friends to stews, as they were called.

He thought it best not to answer.

“You must think I am horrid and will never call upon me again after tonight, or should I say now, this morning.”

“Elizabeth…” His voice trailed off.

“And, no, don’t ask me again, Allen,” she sighed, but continued to smile.

He could only shake his head.

“With that understood, does it bother you?”

“I love you, Elizabeth.”

“But does it bother you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Swear? Cross your heart?”

“I swear,” he whispered.

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly.

“If not for this damn war, Allen, I would not behave like this. But who knows how long,” she hesitated, “either of us have. I could not bear the thought of you going back into the war and my not having at least one night with you.”

“Nor I.”

“Then we understand each other?”

“I think so.”

She smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him again, this time without restraint.

Valley Forge
April 9, 1778

Ever so rarely would he let emotions show, but at this moment George Washington sat silent, eyes clouded.

The entire room was silent except for the actors on the stage and the crackling and popping of the banked-down fires. The bakehouse this night was their playhouse, rough-hewn benches serving as seats for himself and the
invited ladies. The long length of the rest of the room was packed, doors open, more gathered outside for this performance of Joseph Addison’s
Cato.

General Baker of the Army Christopher Ludwig had objected most strenuously to his bakehouse’s being converted into a playhouse for the evening, but he now sat in the corner, openly weeping, as were many in the audience.

All knew it was Washington’s favorite play; he had memorized nearly every line years ago, and it was considered by many to be “the play” of the Revolution. Patrick Henry all but quoted it with his famous cry, as had the martyr Nathan Hale just before he gave his life.

And now, in this final act, Cato, implacable foe of Caesar, defender of Republicanism against Monarchy, was dying. After Caesar’s victory at Thapsus and the crushing of the last resistance by those opposed to his seizure of power from the Senate, Cato had chosen death by his own hand to life under the tyranny of the usurper.

The actor playing Cato, a lieutenant with Anthony Wayne’s staff, a survivor of Paoli, saber scar on his face a fierce reminder of that night, slowly lay down.

Some could not conceal their weeping as Cato hoped that his death might divert Caesar so that his beloved sons and the few followers who had stayed loyal to him could still escape the wrath of the dictator.

Washington could feel Martha’s hand tighten in his. He knew her deepest fear. It was not his death on a battlefield of victory…it was what she knew he would do if he realized that indeed all was lost…that he would seek death on the field of defeat, the last man to die for the cause, never to surrender. Though he had not spoken of it, he had so resolved on the night march to Trenton. And when the campaign of spring came, if indeed after this eternal winter of suffering, and now of at least some hope, if defeat became inevitable, he would chose the path of Cato rather than fall into the hands of the enemies of his country.

He closed his eyes even as Cato, on the stage little more than an arm’s length away, slumped down and closed his eyes. The man did not perform in the style of nearly all professional actors, declaiming his last lines loudly, arms flung wide, crying out as he swooned and death took hold. There was not a man in this room who had not seen death. Nor was there barely one who had not held a dying comrade, struggling to ease his final moments, leaning close to hear his last whispered words for loved ones, wives, children, parents, and then whispering a prayer in reply.

The actor portraying Lucius, Cato’s closest friend and ally, knelt down by the side of his comrade, holding him close, actually crying for a moment. The actor was an elderly sergeant with a Massachusetts regiment. He had begged for the part when Hamilton had first suggested a performance, reciting every line flawlessly at the very first rehearsal. His passion for it now showed.

Washington could not help but wonder what inner woe this man carried from the war and now poured so fervently into his performance.

He paused for a moment and then looked straight out at the audience:

The room was silent. No applause, only silence, except for those who could not control their tears. For the play was of them, about them, about the ordeal they were now enduring…and ahead, fate might still lead them to this moment.

There was no curtain to draw closed, the stage illuminated by half a dozen lanterns only. Hamilton and Laurens stood up and, stepping forward, bent over and blew out each lantern, darkening the stage.

No one spoke, and Washington could sense that all eyes were turned toward him, the actors in expectation of some praise. He squeezed Martha’s hand and stood up, but he did not ascend the few steps to the stage, instead turning and facing the audience.