Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (53 page)

“A comment, perhaps, from our good Lieutenant van Dorn regarding his former countrymen here in his home colony.”

Allen reddened as all turned to look at him.

“Go on, young sir, it is why I have you on my staff. Tell me what you think Washington and his horde will do.”

“Attack,” Allen said softly.

“Let them,” came a reply from the major he had come close to fighting a duel with back in Philadelphia. “Let them and we will show them what for. Or are you afraid of them, Mr. Dort?”

The major deliberately mispronounced his name. Allen stared at him and did not reply, turning instead to his commander.

“Sir. I think they will attack with everything they have. We are a column strung out on a road for a dozen miles or more. Their forces are gathered.”

“I will send them a personal invitation to attack,” the major interjected. “A proper duel and we will send them packing. But then again they are merely provincials, have no sense of honor, and would run from a good and proper challenge from a gentleman.”

No one spoke for a moment, for the implication was obvious.

Allen turned and faced him.

“Sir, if you seek satisfaction…” His voice trailed off as Grey barked a command for both of them to desist.

“Mr. van Dorn, you will direct your comments to me alone at this meeting, and the rest of you will be silent.”

Allen stiffened, turned back to Grey, and nodded.

“Go on then. Your opinion.”

“Sir. The rebels in last year’s campaign were soundly defeated in every open-field engagement. But that was last year. We have heard the reports of their drilling since early spring. Sir, you asked me to join your staff to give my views on what can be called my former countrymen. I know their mettle. They are, without doubt, not drilled to the caliber of the men under your command, but they believe they are.”

He paused.

“That, sir, is what I think shall be the issue this day. They believe, after so many defeats, that they are now our match. The march of this last week has done nothing to dissuade them of that belief. No one here can deny that we have left behind scores of dead, along with hundreds of exhausted, and, though we dare not admit it, most likely hundreds of deserters as well, especially from the Hessian ranks. That will embolden them. I think, therefore,
that before this day is out they will swarm in to attack. We must be ready for that.”

All were silent except for the major, who gave a sniff of disdain and deliberately turned away. Grey did not reproach the man, for back in England, the major’s family line was far more intimate with the inner circle around the royals than his own, but all could see his frustration.

Grey nodded thoughtfully.

“I shall take your words into consideration, Mr. van Dorn.”

That was all he said in reply, but Allen could see that Grey had taken his comment to heart.

“We march in an hour,” Grey snapped. “Dismissed.”

One Mile East of Englishtown
8:00 AM, June 28, 1778

Inspector General Friedrich von Steuben had been in the saddle for nearly two days without rest. After riding from Hightstown to report to Washington that Clinton was indeed turning east, he had indulged himself in a few hours’ sleep. Without any specific orders, he had taken upon himself the role he felt best suited for at this moment. Gathering his exhausted staff, he had ridden off to yet again scout the enemy line of march.

He had ridden clear around the enemy column. The dragoons assigned to him had finally given up on their duty, begging that their mounts needed to be rested. He had simply ridden on. In the end it was down to the ever-faithful Vogel, Du Ponceau, and, of course, Azor.

Late in the afternoon yesterday, his decision to continue had nearly cost him his life. In the midst of the storm he had left his two companions and his dog to rest in a shallow creek bed as he rode forward for a closer look. He had nearly ridden straight into a vedette encampment of British dragoons, two of them mounted. They charged straight at him, one of them shouting, “That damn German!”

Drawing out his two heavy Russian-made horse pistols from their holsters mounted to either side of his saddle, he had leveled them, one in each hand. The lead dragoon shied off not a second too soon as his first pistol fired off with a roar. The second man reined back hard, the next shot striking his horse in the chest, sending it rearing back. He had turned and ridden off, and in the excitement had dropped one of the precious pistols.

The first dragoon, now joined by several comrades, had chased him across an open field, drawing closer. Only pistol shots from Vogel and Du Ponceau had caused them to rein in, suspecting a trap.

With a flourish he had jumped the narrow creek bed, looked back at his angry pursuers, one of them shouting for him to come back for a one-on-one duel, and waved his hat in salute.

He was forty-eight years old, and had not had so much fun in years.

For several anxious moments he could not find Azor, and feared he had run off. Finally his dog came out from the bushes, grinning in that funny way dogs do when their cowardice has been exposed. He returned to his master, sheepishly wagging his tail. Von Steuben had dismounted to rub the dog’s head, even though he was soaking wet and stank. He rode on, he and his comrades laughing about the narrow escape, even though none would admit just how heart-stopping it had been.

Throughout the night he rounded in front of Knyphausen’s column. Then, at three in the morning, that which he had been anticipating was now at last obvious. The enemy forces were beginning to shake out, preparing to march before dawn. Sweeping along the edge of the long column that stretched clear back beyond Monmouth, the evidence was clear. Teamsters were harnessing their mules and horses to wagons, by the light of smoldering campfires men were stirring, and, though the wind was still, the smoke in the air carried the scent of bacon, ham, and salt beef being cooked.

At times he ventured to within easy hailing distance for a closer look, Vogel and Du Ponceau repeatedly begging him to keep his distance. But he had to know for sure, and, other than bringing in some willing deserters, he had to see with his own eyes in order to make an accurate report. As the first glimmer of dawn showed on the eastern horizon, revealing a landscape cloaked in morning mist and smoke, he was at last convinced.

They were forming up to march.

And now, as he wearily rode into Englishtown, eager to report directly to Washington, to his dismay he saw that only now was the advance guard preparing to move out.

He had not been present when command of the advance guard was transferred from Lafayette to Charles Lee, and when he received news of that it had stunned him. Lafayette was still a very young man, but that was a virtue in an advance guard commander. It took the raw nerve and at times foolish valor that had yet been tempered by bitter experience to push an advance guard forward. Only now were the men under the command of Lee beginning to form up.

He spotted Dickinson, of the Jersey militia, and rode up to inquire as to their orders, only to be informed that there were no direct orders other than to probe forward cautiously, make contact with the enemy, and then await “developments.”

Cursing loudly in German, he pressed back up the road, upon which, nearly four hours after first light, the first troops were finally beginning to move along.

Damn all! They should be on them even now. It was a moment all generals dreamed about. An enemy column, exhausted, demoralized, strung out on a road, with your own massed force ready to smash into them and roll them up, unit after unit. But he saw no such force now. Only men just recently roused, beginning to march forward, none of their regimental or brigade commanders with any sense of clear orders from their general other than “make contact, develop the situation, and then await further orders.”

At last he rode into the village of Englishtown, the road clogged with disorganized men coming in from fields adjoining the town. Their spirits seemed high enough, but none clearly knew what they were doing other than marching east. And the heat. Already it was as hot at eight in the morning as it had been at noon yesterday. Hours that could have been used for marching before the boiling summer descended on them had been lost. In the Ukraine, both sides had known to take advantage of the cool of night and, when need be, sit out the midday heat. That advantage was being taken by the enemy, and squandered by General Lee.

He rode into Englishtown and asked repeatedly for General Washington, only to be told at last that the main van of the army was advancing from Cranbury but was still several hours away.

He had spent two days and nights without rest. It had been in fact a week solid of campaigning ever since riding into Philadelphia, and the push had at last caught up with him.

He needed Vogel’s help to get out of the saddle. Du Ponceau went up to a house where a door was open. A woman was standing in the doorway, while out by the fence guarding the house, her children were lugging up buckets of well water and offering them to the troops slowly marching by. The men were grateful as they took out their tin cups and scooped up a cooling drink, shouting their thanks to the women and her children. Du Ponceau, without doubt displaying his usual French charm, chatted with her for a moment and returned.

“Madam Beaulieu graciously offers one of her beds for you to rest, sir,” Du
Ponceau gasped. “She is a good patriot; her husband is French, no less, and a captain of militia. She will keep watch while we rest and inform us the moment the advance guard of General Washington and the rest of the army appears.”

Friedrich needed to lean on Vogel’s shoulder as he hobbled up to the house. Du Ponceau took their horses around to the barn to unsaddle and water them.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” she offered as von Steuben gained the door. All he could do was smile, and doff his hat in reply, as she led the way into the house and to the rear and a small servant’s room, bed freshly made.

She offered some breakfast but he refused, Vogel simply asking for some water. She returned a minute later with a pitcher, glistening with moisture, and two cups. He and Vogel drank eagerly and she withdrew, saying she would keep watch.

Von Steuben looked at the bed and then just collapsed, not even bothering to take off his boots and jacket. Vogel simply lay down on the floor. Azor looked at both of them, and then slowly walked outside to claim some more territory. The children laughed and offered him a bucket to drink from and then some scraps from their dinner of the night before. Du Ponceau, going into the room, found von Steuben on the bed, Vogel on the floor, both snoring loudly. Mustering what little energy he had left, he went back out to the front yard and simply lay down under the shade of a willow, requesting of Madam Beaulieu that she rouse him the moment she saw the approach of General Washington. Within minutes he was fast asleep as well.

As they slept, from far to the east came the distant echo of musketry.

Monmouth, New Jersey
June 20, 1778
10:00 AM

“Close it up boys, close it up.” The chant was repeated over and over by the weary young captain, mounted on a swayback horse, riding along the line of march.

“Easy for him to say,” Peter gasped. “Son of a bitch is going the other way.”

The captain heard the comment, looked back at Peter, but said nothing and rode on, while those around Sergeant Wellsley chuckled.

Though he missed his old comrades from the headquarters company and especially his friend Sergeant Harris, men he had marched with and fought alongside for more than a year and whom he knew he could trust to stand by his side in battle, it was good to be back among those of his home state.

The day was already scorching hot, the temperature nearly equaling the worst of yesterday afternoon. As they marched, men were uncorking canteens and upending them. Sergeants were cursing them, telling them to save their water for when they’d really need it.

A low rise of ground was visible through the cloud of dust a quarter-mile ahead, beyond it coiling wisps of yellow-gray smoke. Distant shouts echoed, and the men around Peter talked excitedly. Another officer galloped by on the far side of the fencerow bordering the field.

“Come on, boys. Move it. Come on! We need you at the front.”

Frustratingly, the column suddenly slowed to a stop, men bunching up, the regiment ahead coming to a halt. Confused cries ahead, curses, then the long
roll of a drum. Another officer, mounted in the field to his left, waving a sword, pointing.

“Form line to the left!”

Peter, momentarily confused, looked around. The colonel of his regiment, who had been marching just in front of him, had momentarily disappeared from sight in the confusion. Then he saw him balanced precariously atop a split rail fence to his left.

“Over here, boys! Form up over here!”

The column Peter was in broke into a confused mass, swarming off the dust-cloaked road, pushing up over the split-rail fence, sections of it collapsing. Men spilled off, regained their footing, and rushed into a field of thigh-high hay, already toasted golden brown. Hundreds swarmed across the field in apparent confusion, men shouting excitedly, while on the far side of the low crest ahead, the rattle of musketry was turning into a continual roar, a cloud of smoke rising up. Along the crest men began to appear, running, staggering, looking back over their shoulders.

Peter found the colonel of his regiment.

“Line!” he shouted. “Get to the center with the flag, keep shouting the order to form line to the front!”

The gray-haired colonel, who had the look of a schoolmaster or preacher, his face red, florid, spectacles steamed, sweat streaming in rivulets down his face, nodded. Yet he remained atop the fencing, looking to the east.

“Christ in heaven, they’re just on the other side of this ridge!” he cried.

“Form line!” Peter screamed, pulling the man down. The colonel looked at him in anger, and then realized what Peter wanted him to do. He nodded, shouting for the flag-bearer and drummer to follow him.

Together the four sprinted several dozen yards from the road, Peter looking about to see how the rest of the brigade was forming up. No commands from higher up had been given. He had caught a glimpse of Charles Lee an hour earlier, riding along the line of march, but nothing since.

He felt a knot in his stomach. Whatever was happening just beyond the low crest was coming closer.

“Here! Hold the flag up here!” Peter shouted. The colonel looked at him, nodded, grabbing hold of his regimental flag-bearer and fixing him in place.

“Form line!”

Frustrated, Peter stepped in front of the man.

“Second New Jersey Militia!” he cried, surprised by the power of his own
voice, something else that von Steuben had taught them, calling it “command voice.” “Regimental front, center on the flag!”

The swarm of men looked toward him.

“Come on, men! Remember the drill! Form line and get ready to give them hell!”

Some of the men recovered their wits and began to fall in, but the line was taking far too long to form. Peter stepped back half a dozen paces, saw where the First was attempting to form on the left, men still dashing in from the road. On the right, the other side of the road, the other two regiments of the brigade that had been leading the line of march were forming as well. However, some men had crested the low rise ahead and were pulling back, already rattled. Many of the men did not even bother to stop, but just kept on running to the rear.

The brigade commander, mounted, was in the middle of the lane, shouting curses at those fleeing.

Let them go, Peter swore inwardly. Focus on those still with you!

More men were now coming over the crest from ahead, no semblance of formation, some having already tossed muskets aside, running full-out. As they hit the battle line forming up, in places they started to trigger panic with cries that the British were charging.

Peter looked back at the men, standing before him wide-eyed, the colonel looking nervously toward the low crest.

“Prime and load your muskets!” Peter cried.

He was still shouldering his musket and he made a deliberate show of grounding his weapon, reaching into his cartridge box, pulling out a cartridge, tearing it open with his teeth, priming the pan, then ramming the rest of the cartridge down the barrel and reshouldering his musket.

His action triggered a response from the line. Men began to load, more than a few fumbling with their cartridges, a gap-toothed boy his own age looking straight at Peter, grinning nervously, forgetting to withdraw his ramrod as he reshouldered his musket. Peter trotted down the length of the line, musket at the shoulder. The colonel who was supposed to be in command just stood there, back to his men, looking toward the low crest as if mesmerized.

“Battalions!”

The cry was distant, barely heard. Peter tore his attention from the men he was responsible for, and saw the brigade commander now waving his sword and pointing toward the low crest. The regiments on the right, barely formed, surged forward, no real lines, just a surging tide.

Peter stopped by the side of the colonel.

“Sir, the brigade is advancing!”

The colonel nodded with the prompting, and held his sword high.

“Come on, lads!” he cried, pointing forward.

Peter sighed. A year ago he would not have even noticed, but now, after the months of drill, he knew that in the heat of battle, commands had to be precise, drilled over and over and over into the men so that they reacted without even really thinking. He dreaded what was undoubtedly ahead.

They surged up the slope, Peter turning, marching backwards, watching the line.

“Guide to the center! Guide to the flag!” he screamed over and over, and most of the men, hearing him, struggled to follow his orders. The drummer picked up the beat, almost to the tempo he had tried to train the boy to use.

A tree line on the next ridge was visible several hundred yards away, puffs of smoke hanging in the branches. Directly on the crest ahead a cannonball impacted, kicking up a spray of dirt, then bounding high overhead, clearly visible. Men ducked low. The crest was less than fifty yards off, then thirty, the broad, open valley ahead now visible. Smoke hung like a heavy curtain, motionless in the hot, humid stillness.

And then he saw them, a heavy skirmish line of British light infantrymen spaced three feet apart, each moving independently, firing, reloading, crouching down, firing again, then sprinting forward a dozen feet and repeating the action. As an elite unit they were used to triggering panic among their enemies even before the main attack line hit. They were supported, two hundred yards off, by several troops of dragoons who were trained to dash in with flashing sabers if and when their enemies were routed. On the opposite crest were at least eight to ten guns, barely visible in the smoke from their repeated discharges.

What was left of a ragged line of infantry—from their uniforms they looked to be New Englanders—was rapidly falling back, running, already coming up the slope. At the sight of them the men of his own unit slowed in shock.

It was going to be a very bad moment, Peter realized. Nothing was more demoralizing to green infantry than to have a defeated unit fleeing through their ranks.

He looked to the right of the line. The two regiments on the opposite side of the lane had gained the crest and stopped. Just as his own regiment reached the crest, the swarm of broken troops were upon them.

“We’re ordered back! Fall back!”

Peter struggled to be heard above their cries.

“Hold, New Jersey. For Christ’s sake, hold!”

Men began to peel away from his line, like leaves torn from a tree bowing over in a tempest.

“Hold, New Jersey! Hold!”

Within seconds he had lost a quarter of the men of the regiment. Others seemed ready to run, looking nervously at the advancing light infantry and, over their shoulders, to the safety of the rear.

The enemy skirmish line was a hundred yards off, advancing confidently. He could hear their shouted taunts as they slowed for a moment to reload at the sight of this new line awaiting them. Then they began to move forward.

Peter felt as if time was somehow distorting. A flood of thoughts washed through him in those few seconds. Surprisingly to him, he felt no fear. He felt nothing like the fear that had gripped him when for a few terrifying minutes at Brandywine it looked as if these same light infantry were about to overwhelm the headquarters guards and actually take Washington himself. But then, thank God, Lafayette and his men had swarmed in to the rescue.

He glanced back at the regiment of militia. They stood there, wide-eyed, most of them, about ready to break, but they maintained a semblance of the line he had tried to drill into them in a few short, precious weeks. The advancing enemy was only a heavy skirmish line, not solid regiments, though on the far ridge arrayed just behind the artillery he could see columns of those emerging from the woods and deploying.

The light infantry were too far ahead of the main line. And they were too few. We can smash them down, he thought to himself.

The range was down to seventy yards, extreme for a musket, but the time must be now! Some of the light infantry were kneeling down, taking aim, firing, one of the men in his ranks screaming, collapsing, tearing at his chest. In another few seconds they will panic, which was exactly what the superbly trained British light infantry was trying to trigger.

He looked to the colonel who just stood wooden, sword half-raised.

“First New Jersey Militia, poise your muskets!” Peter screamed.

As he did so he ran to the colonel’s side, grabbed him by the shoulder, and shoved him toward the protection of the line. It was better than having him shredded by the fire of his own men.

“First New Jersey, take aim!”

Along with the flag-bearer and drummer, they now pushed into the middle
of the line. He caught a glimpse of the light infantry before him. They had stopped their advance, some going down, hugging the ground.

“Fire!”

It was not really a volley, more a ragged burst, a rattle of musketry that swept the line. The smoke hung around them. Peter had not fired, intent on attempting to lead. He crouched low to judge the effect. It had caught the enemy light infantry off guard. Several of them were down, others were firing back, but they were not charging!

“First New Jersey, reload!”

A ragged cheer went up. The volley had had little real impact but the simple act of firing back had steadied the men. The smoke from their firing concealed them for a moment, and hid from them as well the terror of what they faced.

Peter stepped back in front of the line, running down its length, shouting encouragement.

Several of the men who had finished reloading shouldered their weapons and fired, the discharge of one peppering the side of Peter’s face. If he had not seen the movement at the last second, he would have been directly in front of the man, his head blown off. Only turning and tucking his chin down low into his right shoulder at the last instant had saved his life.

“Hold your fire. Hold for volley fire!”

He spared a quick glance at the culprit, who was so intent on what he was doing he did not even realize how close he had come to killing a comrade.

Nevertheless, it made Peter realize that being in front now was far too dangerous. He shoved his way back through the line, making it a point to slap his musket hard into the side of the offender, who glared at him angrily.

“Watch where you shoot, you stupid bastard!” Peter snapped, and then he was behind the line.

“Second New Jersey! Fall back!”

The cry came from the road, the voice loud, clear. He looked toward the road, wondering who was giving such an insane order. They were on the crest; they had stalled the light infantry. The heavy infantry would have to advance across the open ground, and at least this militia could put half a dozen more volleys into them, while the broken ranks that had swarmed past them had a chance to reform.