Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (49 page)

“That would indicate a move more to the eastward, to Freehold, and Monmouth beyond. Though there are roads here and here.” As he spoke, he pointed toward the villages of Cranbury and Englishtown. “Clinton could turn northward, if Cornwallis should, this morning, come up the road I just traveled on.”

He pointed to the map yet again.

“They can march to Hightstown and then to Kingston and the main postal road that leads straight as an arrow to Brunswick and from there to Amboy.”

Morgan nodded.

“Or, if this morning he follows Knyphausen, it will definitely mean the more cautious and southerly route, as he tries to avoid contact and gain the Jersey shore for transport into New York Harbor.”

Morgan leaned over and spat again.

“Exactly why I’m sitting here,” he drawled, “and I reckon that’s why you are, too.”

Von Steuben felt a ripple of excitement. By God, he was smack in the middle of it. Across the mist-shrouded fields, but three hundred yards away, were his new enemies, Cornwallis and Clinton. At this very minute they were rousing their army to move. Would it be due north to Hightstown or east to Freehold?

He prayed it was north, though if so, he would have to race back to where Washington was camped, fifteen miles away. Lee would scream that they must retreat, but perhaps, just perhaps, the general he admired so much would listen to his own counsel, at last turn his army south, find some good ground.
There were several stretches of good open ground between Hightstown and Kingston where he could draw up and let the British come on.

If east, it would mean a hard march. Perhaps it was impossible now to get ahead, but they could most definitely fall on the flank and rear of the British if they should choose that more timid route.

“What do you think?” von Steuben asked, looking over at Morgan.

A couple more rifles cracked to their left. Both looked over. Several dragoons lingered in the mist near the town. There was a flash of a musket from them. A second or so later, the hum of a ball passing high overhead. Morgan laughed, shaking his head.

“Two hundred and fifty yards with a musketoon? They couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at that range.”

He spat derisively in their direction. The dragoons fell back into the mists.

“I’d like to see the captured Hessians,” von Steuben announced.

Morgan looked back over his shoulder.

“Gregory!”

A rifleman stood up from behind the split rail fence bordering the woodlot. All this time, von Steuben had not noticed that only a few dozen feet away, a score of Morgan’s men were concealed.

“Take our inspector general here to meet his countrymen.”

Von Steuben looked over at Morgan.

“I’m Prussian, not Hessian.”

Morgan gave him a bit of a smile and shrugged.

Von Steuben rode up to the south side of the fence, saw no place to pass through, dismounted, and climbed over. Walker, Vogel, and Du Ponceau followed his lead. Azor took a look at the fence, tried to crawl under it, his bulk stopping him, drew back, whimpered a bit, and then finally sprang over it, a rifleman scrambling to get out of the way.

“Hey, von Steuben, you can ride that horse that’s following you,” the man cried, the others laughing.

He looked back with a good-natured grin, not sure what the man said, and called Azor to heel.

They made their way through the woodlot and picked up the scent of a cooking fire. He had not eaten since the night before, and there was the scent of bacon or ham on the wind.

He came to their encampment. A rifleman leaning against a tree simply nodded as they passed and pointed to a small clearing. Two riflemen were standing in the clearing, rifles tucked under their arms, one of them gingerly holding
a slice of hot, greasy bacon and trying to eat it. Sitting and standing around the fire were nearly twenty Hessians, blue uniforms and yellow or red trim, most of them sporting the traditional drooping mustaches, all of them filthy and mud-caked. A corporal was squatting over a frying pan resting in a smoking fire, bacon sizzling, forking out slices and handing them out. Another man was peeling off slices of cold smoked ham and passing them out as well.

At the sight of von Steuben, in uniform, approaching them, a sergeant came stiffly to attention, shouting a command, the others standing. The man cutting up the ham dropped his treasure on the leaf-covered floor of the forest.

Von Steuben returned their salute.

“Stand at ease, men,” he announced in German.

They did as ordered but looked at him warily.

“I am Baron von Steuben, inspector general of the Continental Army.”

There were muttered gasps from several of the men, the sergeant snapping a command for the men to fall silent.

“I’d like to talk with you.”

No one dared to reply.

“I assure you that you shall be treated according to the proper accords of war, so you have nothing to fear now or in the future.”

He could see the uncertainty in their eyes. Some of them shifted fearful gazes toward the lanky, dirty, tough-looking riflemen guarding them.

“We came in and surrendered of our own accord, sir,” the sergeant announced, still at attention because he was addressing a superior officer and was a fellow German.

“That is good,” von Steuben replied. “I am serving on this side because it is the just side. The same as when I served with my king in the last war. But enlisted men such as yourselves must follow orders, of course.”

The sergeant and the others seemed to relax slightly.

“Sir, I was with the Twenty-first at Minden,” the sergeant announced.

“Your regiment was on our right.”

The baron smiled.

“The Twenty-first, stout lads. I remember you well.”

It was a bit of a lie. The Twenty-first had come close to breaking under the hammer blows of that morning, and his own regiment was one of those that had come to their rescue.

“I was there, too,” another man, a gray-mustached private, chimed in, and several others nodded. He could feel the tension easing.

“How did you get that food?” von Steuben asked, pointing to the frying pan. The bacon had been forgotten with his approach and was smoking and near to catching fire.

The corporal tending it squatted back down, pulling it off the fire, forked out a slab, hesitated, and then offered it to him.

He hesitated to take it; it was still sizzling. The corporal offered the fork as well, and von Steuben nodded his thanks, holding it up to take a bite.

“Found it in a barn,” one of the men offered lamely. Von Steuben chuckled and they relaxed still more.

“And your captors allowed you to keep it?” He nodded toward the two riflemen.

“We fed them first,” the sergeant offered.

“Wise move. These wild men of America can be fierce if not fed. And think of it. They’re not such bad fellows. You think the Russians or French would have allowed you to keep that food if they had caught you?”

The men shook their heads.

“We weren’t exactly caught, sir,” the sergeant announced.

“You deserted, then?”

No one spoke for a moment.

“It is all right, men. Nothing to be ashamed of.” Again that was something of a lie, at least according to his code of conduct. But he wanted information, and being friendly was always the quickest way to get it.

“I apologize for interrupting your meal. Most likely later today you will be escorted to the rear area and from there sent over to Pennsylvania. Let me give you some advice to make things easier. If you have indeed left your regiment, you know there is no going home for you, ever again.”

The men now stood silent, some lowering their heads. To his surprise, one of them broke down and began to cry, muttering about the daughters he would never see again.

Von Steuben went up and patted the man on the shoulder.

“You will see them again. That I promise you, lad.”

The man looked up at him, his sun-blistered face streaked with tears.

“When this war is won by the Americans there will be a new country here, open to all. Write to them and urge them to leave Hesse behind. Come here and start your lives over. This is a rich land, with room for all, for all who will join in the fight.

“That is my advice to you men. I know you are of stout heart—good, decent men. And yet your prince sells you to others to serve as nothing more
than mercenaries. That is a violation of a code of honor, as I see it, and as you should see it. You were in the army to serve Hesse, not to be sent here to a war not of your own making. You have every right to do what you did.

“Offer to join the American cause. They need men of your training and discipline. You will win rank and advancement, I promise you that.”

“And if we are ever recaptured we will be flogged to death as deserters,” one of the men growled in reply.

“You have made a choice,” von Steuben replied, sharply fixing the man with his gaze. “If you should wish, you can go back. Go ahead!”

He snapped out the last words sharply, friendly tone gone.

“Go back!” and he pointed to the south and the open field beyond. “I am a general with this army now. I will order your guards to let you go and they will obey me. You can still slip back. Say you were captured and escaped and wish to rejoin the ranks staggering along that damn road down there, with a hot day ahead, and no water. Any of you. Go now!”

No one moved. The complainer lowered his head, avoiding von Steuben’s gaze.

“Then we understand each other,” von Steuben replied, voice still a bit cold. “You have made your choice, and I now offer you a promise of hope. Offer to join the Americans’ cause and they will welcome you. Serve with honor and courage. When victory is won, contact your families and bring them here. If need be, seek me out and I will help you, my fellow Germans, in any way possible. I swear that by God Almighty.”

There were smiles, muttered offers of thanks. The two guards, not understanding a word, nevertheless sensed that something had transpired, and when he looked to them, there were nods as well.

“Sergeant!”

“Yes, General!” Again the man had snapped to attention.

“Take a walk with me.”

The sergeant saluted, told his corporal to oversee the distribution of food, and fell in respectfully by von Steuben’s side, walking half a pace behind him.

“When did you desert?”

“Last night, sir.”

“How?”

“The men are nearly all of my company. Our captain, earlier in the day, died.”

“How?”

“We think it was the heat, sir. That and too much rich food while we were
in Philadelphia. He was not a bad man, but, forgive me, sir, not a very good soldier, and he was so fat he could barely walk. We were marching. There was no water, the rebels had destroyed every well along the way. The one stream we reached, they had slaughtered a cow, a couple of days before, and put it upstream from the ford. The smell of it was evil and no one dared to drink. There was offal all along the bank of the creek as well.”

“Why didn’t someone drag the cow out of the creek?”

The sergeant shook his head.

“Don’t know, sir. So we had no water, and our captain, he started to drink. He had taken to drink when we took ship over here and never stopped. Even though he was riding, he just suddenly fell from his horse, holding his chest, and was dead. The company was given to Lieutenant Dietrich and, sir, forgive me, but he is the devil incarnate. With every order given, I was to flog the last man to obey.”

“I know the type,” von Steuben said with genuine sympathy.

“That was enough for me, sir. So once it was dark I passed the word to the lads that I trusted that I was finished with it. I made sure the sentry posts were men I trusted, and just before the middle of the night we slipped out of the camp. We’d only gone several hundred paces and were nearly shot by one of those woodsmen that had been trailing us. Corporal Robb knew enough English to keep us from getting shot. The woodsman brought us in and they sent us here.”

“And the bacon and ham?” von Steuben asked.

“Well, sir, we found it along the way,” the sergeant offered, and von Steuben sensed it was a lie. He let it pass, of course. All men forage on the march—it was how they stayed alive at times—and a good sergeant knew when to turn a blind eye.

“Tell me about the march.”

“Hell, sir. Pure, bloody hell. This America—” He shook his head ruefully. “You either freeze your bottom off, or your brain is roasted. And the road! Most of the army has been moving along just one road, sandy or clay. The heat was killing us, and orders were any man who took off his jacket or, worse yet, claimed it was lost would, of course, be flogged. By yesterday, you would see a dead man by the side of the road every few hundred feet, some with faces black, tongues lolling out from the heat and no water.”

“What were the men saying?”

Here was the key question. A good sergeant, more than any other man in any army, should know the tenor and tone of his men.

The sergeant laughed and shook his head again.

“Damn mad, sir.”

“At whom?”

“Officers, and the damn British.”

“Why so?”

“You should see the wagons that are slowing us down. Rumor is General Clinton has twenty wagons loaded with wine, brandy, rum, food, furniture taken from his headquarters, tents, even some women traveling in a carriage. Even the lieutenants have their own supply wagon, while the poor sots in the ranks stagger along, some carrying packs near as heavy as they are.

“I fought in the last war from ’56 right to the bitter end. Wounded three times, I was. Would the king have allowed a march like this, sir?”

It was a slight breach of protocol for a sergeant to ask such a direct question, but it was also a compliment and von Steuben agreed, shaking his head.

“Do you think their army is going to turn north or hug the roads to the south and head for the Jersey coast?”

The sergeant looked at him with a bit of surprise.

“Sir, I’m only a sergeant. Officers don’t speak of such things in front of me.”

Von Steuben laughed softly. “Soldier’s rumors, then.”