Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (5 page)

As he waited for his target to reappear, he glanced over his shoulder. Thirty
or so yards back, half a dozen of his men were concealed in a cave dug into the side of a creek bed. Someone had most likely dug it out as a hiding place for what was left of his livestock.

He whistled softly. As if on cue, a bare head popped up; it was old Moses Wheeler. He was a disturbing sight for many. Twenty years ago, Moses had been taken prisoner by the Shawnee and made a source of entertainment. They had scalped him while he was still alive, along with the usual practice of slow roasting his feet. He endured it without a whimper, taunting his “hosts” to try their best, that surely they could do better. Impressed by his stoic fortitude, the torture was stopped and he was offered adoption into the tribe. Considering the alternative, he readily agreed and later said he actually came to like his new family, but with the return of spring the next year he decided to end the adoption and get out.

Moses could not tolerate a hat. Even in the dead of winter, he claimed it caused his skull to ache. Now that it was free of any covering, the sight of his mangled, hairless crown made many living east of the mountains decide that venturing westward was something they would no longer consider.

Moses crawled up out of the creek bed and hobbled forward. His toes had been burned off, so he had learned to walk again with a strange bearlike shuffle. He crawled the last few feet to Dan’s side and settled in.

As Moses moved in beside him, the cavalcade reappeared, riding slowly along the road, out in the open between the house and barn.

“Can you see that son of a bitch on the road?”

Moses squinted and then smiled, spitting as he offered a chew of tobacco to Dan. He gladly accepted the thick, solid cake, took a bite, and handed it back.

“Think one of ’em’s Howe.”

In spite of his infirmities, Moses had the best eyes of any man in his detachment. Vanity forbade Dan to admit that he feared his own eyes were beginning to fail a bit.

“What do you think, Moses?”

Moses studied them for a moment using Clark’s telescope. The cavalcade had stopped. Moses lowered the telescope, looked east for a few seconds, into the eye of the wind, then back to the men on the road.

“I reckon it is. And if it ain’t, it sure as hell is some high ranker. Figure it to be near on to three hundred yards, Dan. But dammit this wind’s gonna make it a tricky shot.”

“It’s not Burgoyne, but the commanding general is worth the try,” Dan announced.

“Colonel Morgan!” Major Clark hissed. “Damn it all, sir. Do you see how many light infantry they have down there! And those mounted riflemen. For God’s sake, don’t. We’re supposed to scout and report!”

“You write your reports, while I do me some shooting,” Morgan replied with a grin. “And maybe, just maybe, you can report that Howe has gone to hell and I sent him there.”

He slipped his rifle up over a fallen log, found the point of balance, and squinted down the four-foot length of the barrel.

“God help us,” Clark sighed. He snapped his notebook shut and slipped it into his haversack.

“You boys get ready for some fun. Dan’s gonna shoot himself a general,” Moses cackled. The other riflemen strained to look up from their hiding place. They were already placing wagers on the shot, betting their wads of Continental money.

Dan sighted in on the officer in the center of the group, took a deep breath, and exhaled half of it. His finger lightly touched the trigger, and his gaze shifted to the tufts of grass in the pasture before him. He watched as they bent over with the wind, judging the distance and time the ball would be in flight, and shifted his aim a dozen feet to the left of his target, elevating the muzzle to half again the height of the man.

A surge of wind eddied around him, moaning through the forest; the treetops swayed. Muttering a curse, he withdrew his finger, exhaled, and could hear Clark sigh with relief.

“Thank God…”

The horsemen moved again along the road that dropped down behind the orchard. Morgan raised his rifle again, judged the wind, the movement of the target, and the bullet’s destination.
Just a few seconds
, he prayed,
hold this wind back, just a few seconds
…

The prayer went unanswered as another gust swept across the fields and through the trees. The target disappeared from view behind the barn, the road farther on turning south
was
concealed as well by the orchard.

The shot was lost.

“You lucky bastard,” he whispered. “You don’t know how close it was.”

Clark exhaled with a grunt.

“Let’s just settle back and watch them for a while, Colonel. It’s swarming with light infantry and Jaegers down there. They’ll be on us like flies to manure if they know we are here.”

Morgan nodded, his attention focused back on the farmyard.

And then he saw it. The farmer stepped away from the officer and headed toward the road. The officer came up behind him, pistol drawn, and hit the man across the back of the head, causing him to drop to his feet.

“You see that!” Morgan exclaimed. “You see what that bastard did to that farmer?”

Morgan snapped his rifle back up, not even bothering to rest it on a log, and sighted in. The range to the farmyard was about two hundred and twenty, maybe two hundred and forty yards, the wind from the left was dropping off…

“Colonel Morgan, please,…” Clark exclaimed.

Morgan squeezed the trigger.

The familiar recoil slapped his shoulder; it felt much like a caress to Dan. The muzzle of his rifle leapt up slightly as the .45-caliber ball cracked out and arced upward. The greased patch that had encased the ball fluttered to the ground a dozen yards out into the pasture. A puff of smoke swirled up around him, whipped away by the wind, but not before more than a dozen watchful skirmishers in red uniforms and the blue and green of the Jaegers had spotted it.

The report of his rifle thundered across the field and echoed around Zebulon Miller’s farmyard as the bullet shattered Lieutenant Peterson’s right arm—the arm that had been holding the pistol. The impact of the ball shattered the bone from just below the shoulder to halfway down to the elbow.

“Dear God, that’s done it for certain,” Clark cried.

“You shot a little too far to the right, Dan,” Moses announced laconically. “Not your best, but still rather fair, I’d say.”

“Damn wind,” Dan muttered, as he pulled his rifle back and hurriedly started to reload.

“They’re on us!” Clark shouted.

Dan looked up and saw where Clark was pointing.

From out of the orchard to the west of the farm, several horsemen were already emerging, urging their mounts to a full gallop. Behind them, skirmishers and the light infantry were turning and coming on fast. To the east of the farm, he could see other mounted troopers approaching as well. In the farmyard, every lobsterback was scattering. The man he had just shot was on the ground, writhing with pain.

One more imaginary notch for this rifle, he thought with grim satisfaction. Last time you’ll ever hit a civilian, you bastard.

Moses raised his rifle to shoot.

“Don’t give ’em more smoke!” Clark cried, as he turned to run back into the woodlot.

Moses laughed and fired anyway. Dan saw a horse go down, its rider tumbling to the ground.

“You shot the horse, not the man!” Morgan shouted. He fell in behind Clark and reloaded as he ran.

Moses shuffled beside him, sliding down into the creek bed, and then they were up onto the other side. The six men with him already up, two of them behind trees, rifles lowered, aiming, waiting.

Clark cursed the lack of military discipline of all riflemen as he continued to run with Dan.

A scattering of shots erupted behind them. Musket balls whizzed through the trees, one smacking a branch above Dan. He turned and looked back. The Jaegers were on the edge of the woodlot he had rested in but a minute ago. Several of them were dismounting; one had just fired while still mounted.

The two men bringing up the rear fired in reply, and the mounted Jaeger leaned forward, clutching his stomach.

Two more of his men covered the retreat of their comrades, who were now running full out. None of the Jaegers dared to venture into the woodlot, but from the corner of his eye he saw a troop of mounted dragoons galloping hard across a field of winter wheat, trying to flank the north end of the woods and cut off their retreat.

Their own horses were at the far end of the woods; four of his men waited with the mounts.

It was a hard run on the cold, frozen ground. Old Moses cursed as he shambled along on the stumps of his feet, but he still kept the pace.

More shots could be heard. Glimpses of red uniforms flitted in the woods behind them. A line of light infantry moved fast, dodging from tree to tree; some were already across the creek, where they lay flat on the far side to take advantage of the natural trench.

One of their horses screamed, kicked up its hind legs, and collapsed onto its side. Dan realized it was Moses’s horse. He muttered a curse under his breath. “Double with me, Moses!” he cried.

As he reached for his mount, he flung himself into the saddle. Moses needed no urging to grab hold of Dan’s waist and pull himself up as Dan spurred on.

Clark was in the lead, racing at a full gallop fifty yards ahead into an open pasture. Dan did not blame him in the least. Clark knew the names of every
spy and counterspy working in Philadelphia. Although the Brits did not condone the Shawnee way of torture, if he were to be captured they would still try to persuade him to talk before he finally danced at the end of a rope.

Perhaps Major Clark had been right after all. Perhaps that shot was not worth it. The response by their light infantry and mounted troopers was indeed getting faster and more effective.

The British dragoons to their right were momentarily stymied by a high, well-made split rail fence; they were forced to ride parallel to their quarry for a hundred and fifty yards until at last they came to a gate and were forced to stop. The troopers were filled with rage as one finally dismounted to lever the gate open.

The delay gave Morgan and his men just enough time to pull ahead of their pursuers; they galloped down a long slope, leaping a low stone wall bordering a shallow frozen creek half a dozen paces wide, crossed a field of corn stubble, and took cover in a wooded ridge. His reserves were waiting dutifully. Fifty of his riflemen had anxiously watched the pursuit and cheered him on as he came in. One of the riders shouted that ‘Ole Dan’ had gotten himself another officer.

The line of British light infantry skirmishers emerged from the abandoned wood, sprinted halfway to the ridge, stopped at the low stone wall, and got behind it. A dozen mounted Jaegers galloped in to join them and dismounted while Dan’s men opened up at a long two hundred yards. Dan realized these men were not fools. He had hoped to lure them on to his reserves, but they were well trained and would have nothing to do with being caught in an open field, armed with smoothbore muskets, while their opponents in the woods were armed with rifles.

Civilians who still dismissed the British as wooden soldiers—who said they were nothing more than targets waiting to be shot—had never faced them in a real fight, especially the light infantry and the mounted German riflemen.

Some of his men opened up anyhow, but given the wind and cover the enemy had taken, it was more for sport and harassment. Their pursuers were not so imprudent as to press forward against concealed riflemen.

Moses slipped off Dan’s horse and cursed soundly that the ride had all but gelded him. Dan leapt down, ordered his men to keep a sharp eye, and walked over to Clark, who was glaring at him coldly.

“Did that accomplish anything?”

Morgan grinned.

“One less officer, I’d say.”

Clark shook his head as a smile creased his face.

Dan beamed with great satisfaction. Part of the game of legend, he thought to himself. Four hundred and ninety-nine lashes. The message back again to Burgoyne. By tonight his men will joke how he had put another British officer where he belonged. Indeed, it was part of the game of legend, leadership, and command.

Clark walked to a hollow where several shelters cut of pine branches were well concealed. A clean fire of seasoned hickory rails, was crackling in front of the shelters. One of Clark’s men, a former slave Clark now employed as a regular spy, sat by the fire. Seeing Clark approach, he scooped a tin cup of coffee from the kettle over the fire and handed it to him. Morgan followed directly behind him, and the black man gestured with a second cup, which Morgan accepted with a nod. “David, when did you get back?” Clark asked. He sipped his coffee and patted the towering black man on the shoulder.

“Just after you left here, sir. I found out about this raid and was trying to get word to you, but you were already out watching them, so I thought it best to wait,” David replied, his voice as rich and cultured as any British officer’s.

Dan was a bit startled by the man’s tone. He could have sworn he was hearing some upper-class Englishman, fresh off the boat.

So this was David. Clark had spoken of him the night before. The use of this man was obvious. He could easily move between the lines and was able to mimic the dialect of a runaway Jamaican slave who wanted to find shelter inside the British lines from his master. Or he could be a servant of a proper English gentleman carrying a secret love letter to a mistress now so sadly caught behind rebel lines. Since the British seized Philadelphia, this man had run the lines half a dozen times, returning from each trip with invaluable information to be forwarded to General Washington.

David gave a quick report of what he had observed and the intelligence he had gained, now evidenced on the road below. A full brigade, with Howe rumored to be personally leading it, had crossed the river and was attempting to lure Washington out for a fight. The price of all foodstuffs in the city had dropped now that the Continental forts that had blocked the lower Delaware had at last fallen and supply transports were coming in daily. Though the city was now well supplied by transports, this raid was a spoiler, meant to sweep the countryside around Philadelphia clean of any provisions the Continental Army might still try to seize. The report was a picture of the British well se
cured and comfortable in the richest city in North America, ready to live out the winter in luxury, with the lowest British private eating as well as a general on the American side. Weekly balls were already in vogue. Officers were finding merchants more than happy to rent out living quarters for real guineas stamped with the image of the king. More than a few of their daughters were willing to be seen clinging to a redcoat’s arm, the less proper willing to share rather more. Most of the populace seemed content with their conquerors—more and more, they were calling them their liberators. Rumors from spies for the British were that the rebel army was disintegrating, that not a single head of cattle or barrel of flour was found when the Americans marched into Valley Forge three days ago.