Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (45 page)

The army approached in column by companies, each rank ten men wide, the brigades of Generals Greene, Stirling, and Wayne, men who had been drilling in the school of von Steuben for nearly two months now. At the front was the Guards Brigade of General Lafayette.

It was obvious Wayne was in his glory. What was to him the onerous task of bringing in supplies was at an end. The army was about to march and Washington had returned him at last to his old and beloved job in field command, allowing him to seek restoration of the honor he felt he had lost at Paoli.

Arrayed on the other side of the parade field were the ranks of militia regiments that had joined the army in recent weeks. The purpose of the parade, now a twice-weekly ritual, was twofold: to instill pride and boost morale in those training, and to demonstrate to all coming into this army what was now expected of them. This was a new army, and it was essential that every volunteer learn he was joining a real army and not merely a mob of untrained, undisciplined militia.

Lafayette’s brigade approached, the command given for the men to march at the quick time. They presented a grand sight. The first shipment of new uniforms from France had arrived at last, complementing the earlier loads of muskets and ammunition. They had either been landed in New England and hauled down by wagon or, for the more daring ship captains, run in along the Delaware and Maryland coast, aboard swift-moving privateers able to dodge the Royal Navy’s blockade.

The uniform jackets were blue and buff, as Washington had requested to Benjamin Franklin more than a year ago, as if placing an order with a fine tailor overseas, and most definitely not surplus castoffs of the French Army; their absurd white might be fine in Europe but was nearly impossible to keep clean. The French Army might devote hours a day to such tasks, but not an American army. The uniforms were made of heavy wool, designed more for winter use, and would have been like manna from heaven if they had arrived in December. On this warm June afternoon he could see sweat streaking the faces of the men wearing them, and chances were they would
shuck them off once back in camp, but by autumn they would again be grateful to have them.

And besides, with the lead regiments dressed thus, the men actually did look like and, at least on the parade ground, march like an army.

The young French general astride a spirited white horse that appeared to be prancing to the beat of the drums raised his sword with a flourish to salute General Washington, who returned the salute along with the assembled officers, the ladies breaking into applause. Even the militia on the other side of the parade ground appreciated the display, New Englanders letting loose with three huzzahs, the men from the backwoods of Virginia offering up a spine-tingling cry that sounded almost like the baying of wolves.

Lafayette shouted the command for the Guards Brigade to advance at double-quick time and the men sprinted past, muskets at the shoulder, keeping fairly good alignment, the air filled with a sound that Washington always thought to be melodious, the steady rhythm of men’s feet, the clattering of tin cups and canteens, the slapping of cartridge boxes on hips. In the long years of peace after the Indian Wars, how that sound would, at times, haunt his dreams, as he remembered the disciplined ranks of Braddock’s doomed regiments on the first days of the march inland to their rendezvous with grim disaster.

The left and right wings of the Guards Brigade swiftly passed in review. A hundred yards past the reviewing pavilion, the column wheeled ninety degrees to the right, slowed its pace, and started the march back to their camps.

Lafayette turned aside from the lead and rode at a swift canter to come up and join the entourage, dismounting to stand behind Washington, just as Greene’s regiments came into view.

The new uniforms had yet to be supplied to these men. Most were still dressed in their winter rags, cleaned up as much as possible, though many at least sported new French cartridge boxes, the leather strap buffed white. These were men of North Carolina, Maryland, and Virginia, and, deliberately selected by Washington, the New Hampshire brigade to leaven out the southern unit with a mix of men from the far north. His blending together of regiments into brigades always was done with an eye to insuring a mix from different regions, to reinforce that these were United States soldiers, sharing a common struggle.

The Virginia and Maryland regiments had tried to keep some semblance of their uniforms, brown with red, blue, and buff, and had actually protested when similar uniforms were issued to Lafayette’s brigade. Their uniforms were
threadbare, the knees of nearly all of them patched and patched again, once-white trousers a dingy gray and black. Most of the tricorner hats were long since battered down to broad brims, and some of the men went bareheaded…but they marched with élan, eyes left to their general, whom they claimed as uniquely their own. The last regiment of the brigade, men from North Carolina, most of them in homespun hunting jackets, marched proudly, some carrying octagonal-barreled long rifles rather than muskets.

Next was Stirling’s command, men of Pennsylvania and Massachusetts. It had not been an easy unit to create and was made up of stiff, prideful Yankees, more than a few of whom still seemed to feel that this Revolution was their creation and still spoke of how, when they fought in their home territory, victory had always been theirs. The Pennsylvania regiments were led by the First Continental Regiment of Foot, the men proudly claiming the title since they had enlisted for a full three years, the first to do so. Though their uniforms were still homespun, they had also been beneficiaries of the issuance of new muskets and cartridge boxes from France and carried their new weapons proudly.

Last of the infantry was a small detachment of Anthony Wayne’s, men who had been tasked during the winter to bring in forage or to keep picket watch along with Morgan’s men down on the lower Schuylkill. Many were light infantry, carrying an assortment of weapons of their own choosing, and rather than pass in review at the quick time, they did so nearly at the run, rifles and muskets not shouldered but carried in one hand at their sides, Wayne proudly riding ahead of them. Loud cheers greeted them as they sprinted by.

Few of Wayne’s proud fighters had participated in von Steuben’s new training. They had been employed elsewhere and, as light infantry, knew their own way of war.

As they wheeled left and cleared the parade field, the small detachment of army dragoons thundered across the field at a gallop. The few horses that had survived the winter were at last fattening out on the rich pasturelands of the Schuylkill Valley and were again capable of bearing a rider at something better than a slow walk, at least for a short distance. They were by no means even remotely a match for the well-bred and well-fed horses of the British and Hessians, but at least the army could again field a small detachment of mounted troops for scouting and skirmishing.

A battery of Knox’s guns, six-pounders of the First Continental Artillery, took up the rear. The four horses pulling each gun and limber wagon were
beginning to fill back out as well. Two months ago Knox had reported that the horses were so underfed that, within the entire army, he might only be able to put a single battery on the road for a full day’s march, but with each passing day their condition was improving.

A thousand or more horses with the artillery, cavalry, and supply train had died during the winter, the army so in need of food that each death was greeted by the men as something of a gift, as they quickly butchered the skeletal animal for what little meat could be salvaged, also claiming the heart and liver, and boiling down the hooves for broth.

The survivors now pulled the six pieces as they came abreast of General Washington, and Knox shouted a command, the veteran crews wheeling the pieces about, gunners lifting the trailing prologue of each gun off the back of the limber wagon, setting the piece down, drivers of the horses then leading their limber wagons twenty paces back from the gun.. The loaders were already opening up the lids of the wagons even as they moved, drawing out serge bags filled with a pound of powder. In less than a minute the charges were rammed home. Gunner sergeants, who had been carrying lit linstocks, waved the staffs that held burning tapers of saltpeter-encrusted rope, the tips glowing brightly, each waiting as his assistant, using a brass pick, stuck the wire down through the breechhole to pierce the serge bag of powder. A thin trickle of priming powder was poured down the breechhole from a powder horn, the assistant then stepping back, hand raised to signal all was ready.

“Battery, on my command!” Knox shouted, swinging his mount in directly behind the six guns, spaced across the open field, pointing downrange across the open slope facing south. Many of the militia spectators at the far end of the field refused to budge, some of the wags shouting from the artillery to go ahead and fire, knowing, of course, that the weapons were loaded with blank charges…at least they assumed so.

Knox grinned and brought his sword down with a flourish.

“Fire!”

The six gunnery sergeants stepped forward and turned their heads to one side while touching the lit linstocks to the breeches. Five of the six guns leapt back with a roar, the sixth was silent for a second, and then a spark finally caught and it leapt back as well, the gunnery sergeant looking back at Knox with embarrassment through the smoke.

“Limber up!” Knox shouted, barely heard above the applause and shouts of approval, and the distant playacting screams of the militiamen down range who pantomimed that they had been hit.

Washington looked toward them for a second, tempted to shout an order of reprimand. They were obviously green militia who had never faced artillery before, because if they had, by heavens they would not be joking about it now, not with memories of a man next to them being decapitated, or both legs blown off by a six-pound shot, or an entire line going down from a blast of canister and grape.

But all were looking toward his reaction now, Knox waiting expectantly like a youth awaiting a nod of approval. He stood in his stirrups and offered a salute as the gunners, who had already hooked their fieldpieces back on to the end of the limber wagons, turned those wagons about and, at least able to coax their horses to a trot, set off down the field. The parade ended.

Washington felt that a final gesture was needed.

He rode out several paces, turned, looked across the assembly of officers gathered under the pavilion tent, saw the baron, and rode over toward him, reining in. Before von Steuben could offer a salute he did so first.

“Sir, you have been heavensent to us. As my inspector general of the army you have fulfilled your duty as a professional”—as he spoke, Lafayette whispered a translation—“but, sir, as a drillmaster, all I can say is that when next this army goes into battle, the laurels of the victory shall indeed be yours.”

Von Steuben looked up at him, and his eyes clouded with tears. He bowed from the waist, unashamedly wiping his face as he looked back up at the general.

“Sir, I beg to differ. The victory shall be that of this army of brave, gallant men, led by you, sir, and no other.”

Lafayette all but shouted out the translation, and wild cheering erupted. Washington dismounted and, in an uncharacteristic gesture, shook von Steuben’s hand and those of the other officers who had led their troops in the grand review.

Under the pavilion, tables had been set for the evening meal. With a flourish he pointed to them and Martha took over as hostess, a role she so superbly played, whether at Mount Vernon or in the roughest army camp.

Though not yet plentiful, at least there was more variety to the food, now that summer approached. All craved any kind of greens and fruit. Peaches planted on the south slopes of hills were not yet ripe—even down in Virginia it would still be several more weeks—but with some careful picking, and cooking, passable cobblers awaited. Several spring lambs from a nearby farm had been brought in. For some reason, the sight of lambs being killed
had always bothered Washington, so he made it a point to ride off while Billy Lee and the officers’ mess cooks saw to the task. There was fresh cream, even real coffee smuggled in by a venturesome Dutch captain, fresh bread baked by their General Baker, and all settled down for the repast.

The seating was a bit awkward, for Martha refused to sit anywhere near General Lee, Washington’s second-in-command and senior officer, who by tradition should be near his right side.

Lee, after more than a year and a half of imprisonment, had finally been exchanged and returned to the army a month ago. His first night, actually the following morning, had proven to be an unmitigated disaster.

Washington had personally seen to the hosting of a special celebration to honor the return of the captured general. There had been rumors that his behavior while in the hands of the British had been less than honorable. Captured British officers joked that Lee had offered them advice and at one point his sword if he would be allowed to turn coat. Lee, when gently prodded on this by Lord Stirling, acting, of course, on Washington’s request for information, had protested vehemently, and even implied that if such a line of questioning continued, a duel might be the result.

The man had gotten too far into his cups. The embarrassed gathering finally let him withdraw for the night to a small bedroom, adjoining what had become Martha’s private sitting room. It was here that she entertained the wives of other officers and even of enlisted men that she had befriended in the camp.

All had awaited for Lee to awake in the morning, but the man did not appear until nearly noon, when Washington finally sent Hamilton to knock on his door and request his presence for breakfast. Hamilton had returned a minute later, obviously embarrassed, followed by Lee, who looked disheveled and still more than a little drunk. And from his small room came the loud, drunken laughter of a woman. General Lee had smuggled her into the camp. She was the wife of a British soldier who had trailed along with him when he rejoined the army.