Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (59 page)

He sighed.

It could indeed have been a final victory, but God in His wisdom had seen it differently. But then again he was not a Calvinist who saw all things as truly preordained. A year ago this army would have broken under the hammer blows endured. He had seen men far better trained than these break. What they lacked in formal training, they more than made up for in will and courage, and their desire for freedom.

He could not help but feel a pride unlike anything he had ever known before.

They had fought the way he had trained them. They had faced some of the finest heavy infantry in the world and hammered them to a standstill, and then forced them to retreat, and this evening it was the Americans who held the field of battle.

They had won this battle. And from this battle they would win a war, of that he was certain.

“General Lafayette, please convey my respects to His Excellency General Washington. Please tell him that in my judgment our men this day have done all that is humanly possible to achieve.

“Tell General Washington he has won the battle. If the enemy should decide to try and stand again tomorrow, which I pray they will, please tell His Excellency he shall win again, and yet again.”

Lafayette, who had seen so many defeats, could not reply. Eyes clouded with emotion, he could only nod in reply.

“Tell His Excellency the General that he has won a battle, and in so doing, he shall eventually win a war.”

Three Miles East of Monmouth CourtHouse
Midnight, June 28–29, 1778

All stood as General Grey came into the stiflingly hot parlor of the small, rough-hewn cottage that had been commandeered as his headquarters for the night.

“I have just come from a meeting with General Clinton,” Grey announced.

No one spoke.

Allen had been sitting in the corner of the room, head bowed on his knees, nearly asleep. John André was by his side, again stricken by the heat, face pale. The poor man was deathly ill and several times Allen had helped him outside when he had to vomit. Whatever social class divided men, Allen thought, most certainly disappeared at such a moment, when a friend helped another, holding him up as he vomited convulsively.

André had not even stirred from his slumber by Allen’s feet when Grey entered the room, and Allen did not disturb him.

“Orders, gentlemen.”

No one spoke.

“This army is breaking camp even now and retiring to the east. By this time tomorrow night we should gain the safety of Monmouth Heights and that shall be an end of it.

“You mean, sir, we are not standing and taking back the ground ceded today?” a colonel of the Guards asked.

Grey fixed him with a cold gaze.

“No, sir, we are not.”

“This is infamy and a stain on the honor of my regiment,” the colonel gasped.

“To hell with the honor of your regiment,” Grey cried. “Do you not understand, sir? We have been driven from the field. Driven! It is high time we fell back. Another day of this heat, and those damn rebels, devils all of them, attacking, and there will be no king’s army left to speak of your honor.”

The colonel did not reply.

“Do you understand me!” Grey shouted.

The colonel could only nod.

“We understand each other, then. The light infantry, as usual, will cover the rear of the column. The main van will march within the army, and this camp will be cleared long before dawn. All wounded and sick to be loaded aboard wagons, tentage and whatever else is needed to make room for them to be tossed aside.”

“Burn them, sir?” the same colonel asked.

“No.”

“But leave them to the damn rebels?”

“You damned fool! If we burn them, they will see it and attack. Think, man, think!”

The colonel, as if in a daze, simply nodded.

“Now hop to it.”

Grey turned to leave the room and slowed at the sight of André on the floor. He looked at Allen.

“How sick is he?’

“The heat, sir. It truly did get to him these last two days. That and he has the flux now as well.”

“Will he live?”

“If properly tended to, sir.”

“I know you are friends,” Grey said, his voice dropping. “Make sure he is on a wagon and you go with him.”

“Sir? I can see him off and rejoin the troops.”

“I heard you almost got yourself killed today,” Grey said softly.

“Sir?”

“Oh, just a rumor of a rebel not ten feet away. You didn’t shoot him and he stopped a man from shooting you.”

Allen did not reply.

Grey offered a smile and patted Allen on the shoulder.

“You are out of this fight as well, Captain van Dorn. I still will need men such as you.”

“Captain?”

Grey did not reply.

“See to your comrade. We’ll talk once back in New York, but I want both of you out of this fight.”

“Yes, sir,” Allen whispered.

Grey took a few more steps and then turned to look back.

“By the way, your friend, the major you wanted to meet in a duel behind my back.”

“Sir?” He stiffened.

“No need. He’s dead.”

“What?”

“The heat. Apoplexy. He was a useless sot anyhow.”

Grey left the room.

He had barely thought of the noisome major. The man would surely have killed him in a duel.

He tried to think of Elizabeth, now far off in Philadelphia, but already she seemed like a hazy dream, perhaps lost forever.

But he could not escape the haunting look in Peter Wellsley’s eyes. That look of confusion and contempt would live with him forever.

The others were leaving the room, once outside calling hoarsely for orderlies to bring up their mounts. Out on the road the army was already beginning to move, sergeants and corporals lining the road hissing and cursing for the men to be quiet as they broke camp and crawled away, to the Jersey coast, and the refuge of New York beyond.

The Battle of Monmouth was over, and Captain Allen van Dorn knew it would haunt him to his dying day. In his heart, he knew on this day that the side he had chosen to fight for was now losing the war. It might take months, it might be years, but something had changed forever. And in that changing, in his own life and world, he wondered if he could ever return home, if ever again he would see Elizabeth. His heart told him the answer.

He knelt down by André’s side, shook him awake, and, half carrying his friend, staggered outside to find a wagon that would take them to safety, at least for today.

July 1, 1778
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

The cavalcade had been crawling back into Philadelphia for several days now. Congress was returning from its exile in York.

There had been no cheering crowds to greet them. Nor was there any real disdain or anger…it was almost indifference. General Benedict Arnold, still not recovered from his wounds, had been sent into the city to reestablish order, with strict orders from Washington that there were to be no reprisals or arrests, other than of those agents known to still be active in service to the Crown and left behind to gather information or sow disorder.

Arnold might have been a little too aggressive in following that order—several hundred had been locked up—but even now lawyers were rushing to plead their cases, and a general amnesty had been declared for any who would affirm their oath of allegiance to the government of America. As for the Tory residents, nearly all had fled.

Dr. Benjamin Rush came in shortly after dawn. He noted with approval that his friend Benjamin Franklin’s house had been spared. Hoping against hope, he turned the corner to his own residence, and there it stood. A few windowpanes broken, but otherwise intact.

Wearily he dismounted. No one inside was yet aware of his presence. Looking up and down the street, he saw many a house decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, and the new flag of thirteen stars and stripes. The town was in a festive mood even at this hour.

The food of midsummer was pouring into the city from the surrounding countryside and from across the Jersey shore. He could see that the supply of liquor was being replenished as well, with ale houses and taverns open and doing a flourishing business.

No one had recognized him, dirty, travel-stained, sweat-soaked as he slowly trotted to the rear of his home, into the small tack shop, and dismounted. Taking off the saddle and harness, he rubbed his horse down, filled a trough with water lugged from the well, and found enough fresh hay for his tired mount.

Picking up his medical bag, he walked back to the front of his house. He felt torn. Go down to the warehouses that were hospitals and tend to the sick left behind, or the wounded trickling in from the running battle fought across New Jersey? Go up to the meeting hall, where it seemed an eternity ago the Declaration had been signed? Or simply go inside and collapse into exhausted sleep.

As he stood debating with himself, a group of mounted troops turned the corner. To his astonishment it was led by Gates, who was followed by Conway.

They slowed at the sight of Dr. Rush.

“I did not know you had decided to venture back,” Gates offered coolly.

“Duty is here now,” was all Rush replied.

“Well, there is to be a meeting of Congress later today.” He paused and nodded to Conway. “I have requested a hearing. General Washington made his rash move without proper consultation with Congress or the War Board. And most of the enemy escaped. Beyond that, he appointed his crony Arnold to command here. Conway would have been the more fitting choice.”

Rush sighed and stepped closer to both of them.

“He won nevertheless,” said Rush, and he felt a cold chill inside as he looked up at them. “And as for Arnold, you abused him after Saratoga and it was he who led the charge to victory, not you. So until he proves otherwise do not defame the man.”

There was no denying he had cast his lot with these two men months ago, having lost faith in General Washington.

Gates sputtered, unable to reply.

Rush had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, and he had begun to frame what he would say before Congress. The sight of these two now…Rather than rejoicing in victory, in the freeing of Philadelphia and nearly all of Jersey, they were still ready to stab Washington in the back.

“I made a mistake,” Rush finally replied.

“And that is?”

“I lost faith in Washington.”

Gates looked stricken.

“And you, sir,” he announced, fixing his gaze at Conway. “Find another job. I will vote to confirm this nation’s gratitude to General von Steuben in the form of a permanent assignment as inspector general of the army.”

“How dare you?” Conway snapped.

“I must dare,” Rush retorted. “I must because I have been proven wrong and Washington right. Good day to you.”

“We shall see about this!” Gates snapped.

“General Gates!”

He shouted out the name so that many up and down the street stopped and turned to watch.

“General Gates. This shall be a country ruled by government, not by generals. You may protest all you wish, but remember, sir, it is Congress that shall decide. God save us, we made mistakes; and I will admit before all that I made one of the worst of my life. But you, sir, you will submit to the will of Congress, and don’t you dare to enter that hall today thinking even for a second that you can dictate otherwise. Your game and Conway’s is over. Because, sir, regardless of our faults, General Washington never once faltered in his belief in what we must be.

“Now, good day to you, sir…”

Gates looked down at him as if physically struck. There was a frozen moment, and Rush half expected that this man or Conway would strike him. And then came a sound, a distant ripple that grew and spread. Those on the street broke into applause; some even cheered. There were no jeers or taunts, just the quiet reply of citizens who had endured defeat after defeat followed by ten months of occupation and now renewed freedom.

Gates and Conway rode on in silence, forcing their way through the crowd. Rush watched them leave. Gates would survive. He still had his followers, of course. But he had most definitely lost one these last few days.

He looked at the crowd. No one came forward to slap him on the back or shake his hand. They just stood there, applause dying away.

Humbled, he nodded his thanks and turned to go into his house.

An hour of sleep, perhaps, in my own bed, he thought. That would be good. And then…well, then to the hospitals first…and then to Congress for the work still yet to be done to win this war.

Monmouth Heights on the Jersey Shore
July 4, 1778

General George Washington collapsed the telescope he had used to study the distant shore of Sandy Hook and the British fleet anchored around it.

He handed the telescope back to Billy Lee, who slid it into its leather carrying case.

“They have slipped the noose,” Washington sighed. “The last of them are away.”

It was no surprise to him or to any of those around him. Once they had come within the protective range of the guns of the small British fleet left in New York Harbor to defend this redoubt, they had lost any hope of a final attack. The broadside of a single frigate, anchored off shore, might annihilate an entire regiment. Britannia still ruled the waves, and that included beaches near salt water.

Nevertheless, reports had at last arrived that French ships would force the approaches to Long Island Sound. Four thousand elite French infantry were expected in Rhode Island, the first of many who would soon, to the elation of Lafayette, be ready to march by their side.

Washington was elated as well, though he knew that for this Revolution to truly be a success, he must create victory with his own men and arms, if they were indeed to claim the victory as their own.

As word of the victory at Monmouth spread, fulsome praise poured in from Congress. Yet Washington would be forever frustrated that it was not the full victory, the war-ending victory beyond that of Saratoga that he had prayed for.

Whatever hopes that Gates and his cabal had carried were dashed forever. Washington’s need to hold command of this army and thereby shape a Revolution that would truly unify these thirteen states into a free and independent Republic was insured. There would be, at least for now, no Caesar waiting in the wings to seize command and then seize power, as he suspected more than a few across the last winter had desired.

Addison’s
Cato
was still right. It was a play that he hoped all would take to heart now and forever after. Freedom was worth dying for and tyranny was abhorrent to any free man.

“We will move north along the Jersey shore parallel to Staten Island and Manhattan, deploy out onto ground we have not seen in a year and a half,” Washington announced. “Once secured, I’ll ride back to Philadelphia. I think our trusted friend General Benedict Arnold, while he is still recovering from his wounds, is the appropriate military governor for that city.”

He looked at his generals gathered around him.

“Unless one of you should wish to surrender your command in the field and indulge yourselves in the luxury of occupying a town, as our enemies who have run away back to New York have now done yet again.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the group and he gazed at them, beaming with pride…Wayne, Greene, Stirling, Lafayette, and von Steuben.

“No volunteers?”

They laughed again and shook their heads.

“Gentlemen. May God bless you, and may your country never forget the service you have given to it across these last eight terrible months. Months of freezing cold, months of starvation, months of disease, but then months of building hope and pride, and then days of searing heat. You endured all. Victory shall be your reward.”

And now his features were serious.

“But remember always the warning of Cato. And remember as well Cincinnatus. If someday a question shall ever arise as to what is our reward, it is this.”

He gazed at them intently.

“It is this. That we are free. We are brothers in arms, who years hence shall remember the brotherhood we share this day, and that should be sufficient reward for any man. That alone is our reward. That alone is what we fight for.”

He made a vague gesture back to the enemy fleet.

“Can they say the same?”

No one spoke, and more than a few lowered their heads. Lafayette struggled to hold back his tears.

He turned and, facing each in turn, first offered a salute and then extended his hand, clasping theirs warmly. There were chuckles when Lafayette, with unabashed emotion, offered the Gallic gesture of an embrace and then a kiss on both cheeks, which Washington accepted with embarrassment and a smile.

And last in line was von Steuben.

They saluted each other, von Steuben standing at stiff attention.

“
Mein General
,” von Steuben gasped, voice thick with emotion. “History shall remember you forever.”

His general smiled back.

“And, sir. I shall remember you forever, and thank you till my dying day…”

Voice thick with emotion, General George Washington lowered his head as he struggled to hide his tears of gratitude.

“America shall never forget you, sir. Never.”