Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (50 page)

The sergeant smiled. “Ten months ago, when they were all haughty and proud, and under Clinton rather than that scared rabbit Howe, we would be—” He hesitated. “Sir, I mean they would be marching straight north now, looking for a fight. The men all are saying that the last thing the damn British want at this moment is a fight.”

Von Steuben had half assumed that, but this was important news. A good officer knew that, more often than not, the rank and file had things figured out before the generals had even thought of it. It was a superior officer indeed who could keep his cards so close that no one could second-guess him. Frederick could do that. Washington could do it. He doubted Clinton could.

A rattle of gunfire—from the sound of it, rifles and muskets—thundered from the edge of the woodlot facing south. There was a pause, and then yet more firing. Things were beginning to kick up.

He turned and led the sergeant back to his men. The two guards, joined by half a dozen Jersey militiamen, were standing, looking expectantly to the south. It was obvious the riflemen wished to get into the fray. The appearance of the militiamen was different, though. They were gazing at the captured
Hessians with cold disdain. The Germans who had appeared somewhat relaxed after talking with him were now clustered together, obviously nervous.

Von Steuben came back into the group and looked at the militiamen, then turned to Walker.

“Tell them who I am. Find out what command they are with, and tell them that these men are honorable prisoners who must be escorted back to where the army is camped near Hopewell. Be certain to get their names and that of their commander, and tell them without any misunderstanding that after this campaign is over I will personally check to see that these men have been delivered safely. Tell them that General Washington himself wishes to see them. And, if I hear of any mistreatment, it will be they who will be shot.”

He spoke loudly, in German, so that his fellow countrymen could hear.

“Thank you, sir,” the sergeant whispered. “We’ve heard that militiamen don’t take prisoners, or that if they catch us alone…”

He made a gesture indicating they would be gelded.

Walker spoke to the militia. There was some muttering, which Walker killed with a sharp command, pointing to von Steuben. At the mention of his name, the attitude seemed to change a bit.

“The best to you, men,” von Steuben announced to the prisoners. “You have made the right choice. I pray someday we shall meet again under better circumstances.”

As he turned to leave, all snapped to attention and saluted. He smiled, returned the salute, and set off back to the open field.

Reaching the edge of the woodlot, he saw that the riflemen, who had been concealed behind the fencerow, were up, moving into the fading mists, which, with the rising sun, were disappearing. At the northern edge of the village of Allentown, a line of light infantry skirmishers in red was deployed out, trading shots at long range. On the road itself inside the village, there was, as of yet, no movement. It was well after sunrise, the heat rising by the minute, but Cornwallis was standing in place.

What did it mean? Why weren’t the British on the road to get most of the marching in before the heat of the day? Was discipline now so collapsed that they couldn’t arouse their troops before dawn? Was Cornwallis waiting to clear back the annoying cloud of militia and riflemen before advancing north? Was the Hessian movement eastward just a feint?

Damn, he did not yet have an answer.

He rode over to where Morgan was standing in his stirrups, telescope
raised, scanning the town, oblivious to the occasional shots zipping overhead and cutting into the ground at their feet.

“Could actually be their line of march, or a feint before they pivot to their real route!”

As he spoke, he lowered his glass and pointed to where, on the road that led toward Hightstown, a column of light infantry, flanked by a troop of dragoons, was drawn up with what looked to be a four-pounder, limbered and ready for the advance. The small column emerged from the town, infantrymen at the double, once clear of the last home, immediately swinging out into open-skirmish order, still charging at the double. British dragoons rode out to either flank, moving to envelope the skirmish line of Morgan’s riflemen and the Jersey militia.

The militia, at the sight of the advancing cavalry, immediately broke and headed for the woodlot, rightly fearful of being caught out in the open by mounted troops who could ride them down and slash them to pieces.

The skirmishers pressed the advance, even though Morgan’s riflemen dropped several before finally giving back.

The artillery piece advanced a hundred yards out into the open and within seconds its experienced crew had their piece unlimbered and pointed in their direction. The first shot was fired.

A second later, a four-pound ball shrieked between where Morgan and von Steuben sat astride their mounts, the round passing so close von Steuben could feel the flutter of it. There was a scream behind him. Turning, he saw that one of his cavalry escort was down, the horse having lost its right foreleg at the shoulder. The animal was in agony, kicking and thrashing as its rider was pulled clear by his comrades. One of them drew his pistol and shot the poor animal in the head, ending its suffering. The dismounted rider stood up in stunned disbelief and faced the artillery crew, shaking his fist and cursing them.

“I think we should show a bit of discretion,” Morgan announced calmly. “That gun does seem to have us in its sights.”

They turned and rode back across the field, von Steuben’s staff and escorts behind, Morgan’s riflemen and the Jersey militia following. The British advance had stalled out in the middle of the field and did not press forward, instead trading shots at long range. The British were at the disadvantage without any Hessian Jaeger riflemen, who could fire at nearly the same range as Morgan’s men could with their Pennsylvania and Virginia long rifles.

But they did not press forward. The lone artillery piece stayed just barely
out of rifle range, tossing either four-pound shot or grapeshot down the Hightstown road or into the adjoining woodlot. The cavalry finally did advance to either flank and at last forced Morgan and his riflemen and militia to fall back for half a mile until they gained a defendable stretch of a nearly dry streambed, where cavalry could not easily venture against determined infantry.

Allentown was now out of sight. Were these enemy skirmishers the advance guard for today’s march, or a cover while the rest of the army continued to the east and the road toward Monmouth? This was a key bit of information that he must bring back to Washington today.

“I’m going to ride parallel to their line for a while,” von Steuben announced. “See if they are really moving that way, if I can.”

Morgan nodded.

“Can I find you here when I get back?”

Again that annoying shrug.

“Maybe. Depends.”

“Send a report back to the general once you get a sense of their movement,” von Steuben ordered, and Morgan shot him a bit of a cold look.

“Don’t need to be told that. It’s what I’ve been doing these last six months.”

The baron offered a smile.

“I did not mean an insult, sir. Just that the general needs to know today, immediately, if they are heading east rather than north, so that he can move accordingly.”

He turned and started off to the east, his staff and escort following at the gallop.

It was turning into a beautiful day and he felt a surge of joy. At that moment it almost didn’t matter which direction they were turning. He had a job to do. It was a job he was suited to and there was that heady sensation that today, indeed, he could make a difference in this war that he now so passionately believed in.

On the Road to Hightstown
One Mile North of Allentown

“Damn, that was close!” Captain John André announced. Allen had instinctively ducked as a rifle ball cracked the air between them.

“Calm, sir,” André chortled. “Always show calm in all things as a gentleman should. Look to our good general back there for inspiration.”

Without lowering the field glass held in his right hand, André gestured back to the rear with his left hand.

Allen looked over his shoulder to where General Grey, mounted, remained a couple of hundred yards behind the light infantry skirmishers.

“Easy enough for him,” Allen muttered. “We’re in rifle range, he isn’t.”

“My fine young provincial friend. You put too much credence in these backwoods ragamuffins and their rifles.”

“My fine English-born friend,” Allen snapped back. “I know what they can do. Remember, I lived near here. Several of the men of my village had long rifles and could choose which eye they wanted to shoot at a hundred yards.”

“And we are a good two hundred yards back,” André replied casually.

Allen kept his eye on one rifleman in particular, who apparently had singled them out for attention. The man was casually leaning against the side railing of the bridge the light infantry were to take and secure, arm moving up and down as he loaded. Behind him, men with axes and crowbars were hacking at the decking of the small, twenty-foot-long bridge, tearing it up.

“Gun number one. Fire!”

The four-pounder a dozen feet to the left of where André and Allen stood kicked back with a roar. The rifleman on the bridge, and those working at destroying it, spotted the flash and dove for cover. Splinters kicked up near the rifleman from the impact of grapeshot. Allen watched the man with the rifle, who stood back up several seconds later as if nothing had happened and continued reloading.

The skirmish was picking up in intensity, but so far there had been only a few casualties on either side, the light infantry keeping their distance to well over a hundred yards. They were taking advantage of any cover, knowing they were facing riflemen. The cavalry was far out to either flank, having been flanked in turn by militia concealed in nearby fencerows and woodlots. The militiamen, though firing at extreme range with their muskets, had forced the attempt at flanking to turn back.

“Ah, John,” Allen finally offered, seeing that their distant opponent had finished loading, and this time was sitting down, elbows on knees and drawing careful aim.

“I see him,” André whispered, “and, my friend, General Grey sees us. It is our job to stand here and inspire the men.”

There was a flash, and a second later André flinched. Startled, Allen looked over. The rifle ball had grazed André’s epaulette and he was gazing down at it.

“Damn him, this uniform cost twenty guineas,” he snapped.

Angry now, he stepped forward and drew his sword.

“Come on, men, enough of this playing about,” he shouted, and he pointed the sword toward the bridge.

The rifleman was back up, reloading. The axmen worked furiously—planks were coming up, and, rather than toss them into the shallow stream, the party was hauling them away.

André trotted along the road, sword out.

“Come on now, men, to the bridge!”

Cursing under his breath, Allen followed.

It was already blazing hot. Sweat beaded his face. His shirt underneath the jacket and vest was soaked, as if he had been swimming. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt swollen.

He had to follow André, damn it, and he drew his own sword.

The cavalry from the flanks, having drawn back toward the center, wheeled. Their captain, seeing André going forward, shouted for the men to charge. The thunder of their hooves rumbled across the open field as they trampled down spring corn and knee-high hay that had been turning brown in the heat.

The light infantry, which had been hugging the ground and a low line of hedges that bisected the field, came to their feet. After several hours of skirmishing in the heat, they were tired. Many of them were panting. One had collapsed in a heap, though not from any wound; after lying an hour behind the hedge, without water since the night before, cooking in his heavy wool uniform, he simply gave out.

On the far side of the bridge Allen could see a few mounted men. Someone had identified one of them as Morgan. The man seemed unperturbed by the ragged charge, and, while still mounted, he raised his rifle and fired. Allen saw a man to his right go down, cursing, clutching his arm.

The scattering of riflemen and militia in the streambed got up on the far bank and ran. The axmen tearing the bridge apart gave way and ran as well. The rifleman who had nearly killed John, unable to finish loading, gave a wave, jumped the broken span of the bridge, and darted off.

André reached the south end of the bridge. Grabbing hold of a railing, he swayed, head lowered, panting. For a moment Allen feared he had been hit.

He came up to his side.

“Damn it, sir, why did you do that?”

André looked over at him and tried to grin, beads of sweat dripping from his face.

“Sorry, lost control of myself for a moment, I guess. Not looking for mention in dispatches, mind you, just that bloody man tore my good uniform.”

Around them the cavalry were reining in. A ten-foot span of the bridge was gone in the middle and none dared to try and jump it. They turned their horses to either side, trying to force a way through the thick briars and saplings to get down to the stream.

The light infantry gained the bank. For them, getting through the tangle was easier, and most of them were down into the creek within seconds, discipline forgotten as men began to peel off cartridge boxes and set aside muskets so they could kneel in the stream.

Some of them began to curse.

“Damn bloody rebels!”

Allen saw where the calling cards had been left. Apparently during the night someone had thought to drop a cartload of offal—from the smell of it, pig manure—into the sluggish creek, and the decaying head of a butchered sheep was bobbing in the stream.

Most of the men didn’t care, and scooped up handfuls of the water to drink, even as sergeants cursed at them to leave off.

“Rather impetuous of you, Captain André.”

Allen, leaning over, still gasping for breath, and furious that he could not refill his canteen, looked up to see General Grey.