The Marquis

by Laura Auricchio

  Unfortunately, Lafayette failed to heed this last point as fully as Washington might have hoped. Lafayette marched to within eleven miles of Philadelphia, where he set up camp on an elevation in an area known as Barren Hill and remained there for two nights. As Lafayette described it, his position was “of good height,” affording a clear view of its surroundings, and securely situated, having “at right rocks and the [Schuylkill] River, at left excellent stone houses and a stand of woods, its front supported by five pieces of well-placed cannon, and some roads at the rear” protected by six hundred militiamen. The detachment stayed in place long enough for General Howe to learn their location. Howe was having a busy week, filled with farewell parties, but he was willing to delay his departure for a few days if it would mean leaving with Lafayette in tow. He immediately began planning an attack on Barren Hill.

  On the morning of May 20, Lafayette was recruiting a young woman to serve as a spy when he was told that a British column was approaching from the left. Next, he heard that troops were advancing from the rear. The Pennsylvania militiamen, he learned, had abandoned their posts. Someone cried that Lafayette’s detachment was surrounded—and it was. With 5,000 British soldiers advancing toward him from three directions, and seeing no way through enemy lines, Lafayette maintained his composure. Thanks to a cool head and some clever feints, he managed to elude the enemy while directing an orderly retreat along a low road that led through the woods, across the Schuylkill, and back to camp. That Lafayette’s detachment escaped with only nine dead was all but miraculous.

  News of Lafayette’s retreat at Barren Hill spread throughout America and around the world as it made its way from personal letters and official documents to newspapers and magazines. Interpretations of the story varied according to each author’s politics, some presenting Lafayette as a hero and others painting him as the hapless beneficiary of a lucky break. Washington, who understood how deeply Lafayette cherished his honor, was careful to cast the event as “a timely and handsome retreat” in a letter to Congress that was published in the Pennsylvania Packet on June 3. Another writer, whose letter appeared on the same page, attributed Lafayette’s success either to cowardice or to confusion on the part of the British. “The commander of the enemy’s party,” the author opined, “must have been deceived by the regularity and good order of the retreat, and apprehensive of being drawn into an ambuscade, otherwise nothing but want of courage can excuse him from letting the Marquis get off with so trifling a loss.” The London papers, which habitually derided the “French mercenaries” serving America’s cause, carried a letter from a British soldier who blamed Lafayette’s escape on nothing more than good timing. The “rebels,” wrote the man, who claimed to have been at the scene, had received intelligence of the British march and escaped across the Schuylkill “with the utmost precipitation.” “Had we been half an hour sooner,” he averred, “we should have given a good account of them, for the army was never in higher spirits.”

  Lafayette’s Retreat at Barren Hill. (illustration credit 6.1)

  The most colorful accounts of the day are those that describe the actions—some real, others likely fabricated—of the forty-seven Oneidas who served as Lafayette’s advance scouts. The Pennsylvania Packet reported that the Oneidas’ harassment of the British facilitated Lafayette’s retreat: after firing at the British light cavalry, the story relates, the Indians “set up the war whoop, and scampered about according to their custom.” The British were said to have been so “terrified at the unusual sound” that they “scampered off too as fast as their horses would carry them,” dropping their cloaks behind them. This account paints the Native Americans as scavengers who collected the discarded clothing “and soon converted them into leggings.” Another version of the story appears in the diary of Joseph Plumb Martin, a soldier in the 8th Connecticut Regiment. Overestimating the number of Oneidas present, Martin remembered that “a company of about a hundred Indians, from some northern tribe”—men he described as “stout looking fellows and remarkably neat for that race of mortals”—had joined the detachment at Barren Hill. Martin came away unimpressed by the Oneida scouts, who, “with all their alertness,” had failed to notice that the British were coming until it was very nearly too late, and then proceeded to spend the afternoon “whooping and hallooing like wild beasts.”

  There are no accurate records of the numbers of Native Americans who died at Barren Hill, but evidence suggests that the Oneida warriors were among the last to leave the site, and a plaque installed many decades later in a nearby cemetery commemorates “six Indian scouts who died in battle May 1778.” Before the summer was out, the Native Americans were headed back to upstate New York, but Lafayette’s association with the Oneidas was just beginning.

  Major General Charles Lee with one of the dogs whose company he preferred to humans’. (illustration credit 6.2)

  Of all the alliances Lafayette forged in 1778, the most valuable was surely his friendship with Washington. The bond between the men was cemented in late June, when the chaotic Battle of Monmouth pitted them not only against the British Army but also against the volatile temper of their comrade-in-arms Major General Charles Lee—a scrawny man with an outsized ego whose service as second-in-command of the Continental Army was about to come to a spectacularly bad end.

  Lee and Washington had a long and contentious history. The men were the same age (both were born in February 1732—Washington in Virginia, Lee in Cheshire, England), and both had served in the wars against France. But Lee, who had fought in Europe and was still a British soldier when he took up the American cause, deemed himself the wiser and more accomplished officer. Lee’s disdain for Washington was not personal; he regarded nearly everyone in the same imperious manner. An eccentric character, Lee took pride in his misanthropy and openly admitted preferring the company of dogs and horses to that of humans; in a letter to a friend, Lee promised that he would turn philanthropic “when my honest quadruped friends are equaled by the bipeds in fidelity, gratitude, or good sense.” Exhibiting a fine disregard for military protocol, he treated orders like unwelcome suggestions—which is to say, he generally ignored them.

  In the early days of the Revolutionary War, relations between Lee and Washington had been cordial. But they took a turn for the worse in November and December 1776, when Lee repeatedly disregarded Washington’s directive to hasten his troops from their camp near White Plains, some fifteen miles north of British-held New York, in order to reinforce Washington and his men in New Jersey. Rather than simply cross the Hudson as instructed, Lee wrote letter after letter—to Washington, to other officers, to state officials—justifying his inaction on the grounds that he had insufficient troops to make the journey safely. As the days wore on, elaborate complaints began to creep into his letters. Writing to the president of the Massachusetts Council on November 22, Lee railed against the “indecision” he observed in the nation’s military and political leadership and insisted that a draft be raised—a suggestion that ran counter to the wishes of Congress. “There are times,” Lee argued, “when we must commit treason against the law of the State for the salvation of the State.” Still in New York on November 30, he further argued that a conscripted army would make for a superior fighting force, since volunteers tend to come from “the most idle, vicious, and dissolute part of every society.” Such men might easily “become the tools of some General, more artful than the rest,” he warned, and be compelled to turn their arms “against their country’s bosom.” Meanwhile, Washington—who, we might presume, was the “artful” general to whom Lee alluded—was growing impatient. Writing from Newark on November 27, Washington had expressed astonishment that Lee had not yet budged, given that “my former letters were so full and explicit, as to the necessity of your marching as early as possible.” Lee and his men finally crossed the river in early December, but they would not be on the move long. On the morning of December 13, Lee was captured by British dragoons while staying at a suspiciously unguarded f
armhouse in northern New Jersey. He remained in custody until May 1778.

  Released as part of a prisoner exchange, Lee reached Valley Forge the day after Lafayette returned from Barren Hill. He was just in time to join in the councils of war that Washington convened in June to debate whether—and, if so, how—to engage the British troops that were evacuating Philadelphia and marching north toward New York. Opinions were divided. Lee joined with Benedict Arnold and others in insisting that the Continental Army would be no match for the British in an open engagement, while Lafayette was among those who encouraged bold action. Washington chose a middle course: the Americans would harass the withdrawing troops as they headed north but would be prepared for a general engagement should success seem likely. On June 18, Washington drew up orders that placed Lee in command of the first division, assigned “to move the morning after Intelligence is received of the Enemy’s Evacuation of the City.” But Lee declined the offer, and Washington selected Lafayette to lead the advance force.

  On June 25, Washington placed Lafayette in command of 4,400 troops with orders to use “the most effectual means for gaining the enemys left flanck and rear, and giving them every degree of annoyance.” On June 26, at least seven letters flew back and forth between Lafayette and Washington between five in the morning and ten-thirty at night. In them, Lafayette stressed his desire to move as quickly as possible while Washington stressed the need for circumspection. “I must repeat again my wish that you do not push on with too much rapidity,” Washington wrote from Cranbury, New Jersey, at nine forty-five in the morning. “You may be, in case of Action, at too great a distance to receive succor and exposed from thence to great Hazard,” he explained.

  Before the night was over, Washington had replaced Lafayette with Lee. Lee had not changed his mind about the feasibility of the mission but felt that he had been too hasty in declining the opportunity to lead it. As Lee had explained to Washington on June 25, it “is undoubtedly the most honorable command next to the Commander in Chief” and “my ceding it would of course have an odd appearance.” Lee made a similar appeal to Lafayette, who yielded to the senior officer’s request. If Lee’s objective in declining had been to scuttle the mission and make himself seem indispensable, Washington’s appointment of Lafayette had elegantly demonstrated that neither was the case.

  After accepting a command that he did not want, the disgruntled Lee proceeded to complain mightily about it. Writing from a post in the woods near Englishtown, New Jersey, some forty-five miles south of Manhattan, at seven in the morning on June 27, Lee grumbled that he had been unable to ascertain whether or not the British were still encamped at Monmouth; by way of explanation, he added that “the People here are inconceivably stupid.” The British had not moved, and they were still there on the morning of June 28, when the Americans engaged the rear of the British Army near Monmouth Court House. Lee was in command when the first shots were fired, but his leadership quickly dissolved when he ordered a retreat in the face of a charge by enemy cavalry. As Lafayette recalled the events, the Americans were soon “exchanging roles with the British.” No longer on the offensive, Lee had allowed himself to be pushed back by Cornwallis. Alarmed, Lafayette dashed off a note to Washington, who arrived “at a gallop” only to find “the troops in confusion and still retreating” while Lee complained that the entire mission had been “against my advice.” An outraged Washington castigated Lee, sent him to the rear, and seized control. “Cannon fire was exchanged all day,” wrote Lafayette, and although both sides suffered hundreds of casualties in one-hundred-degree heat and stifling humidity, the Americans “continued to gain ground until nightfall.” At the end of the day, the British withdrew and the Americans claimed the battlefield.

  As measured by the number of fallen soldiers, the battle was very nearly a hard-fought draw, but the Americans saw the outcome as a victory. It was the first time Washington’s army had advanced against the British, and the first time the ragged men of Valley Forge had looked and acted like the disciplined fighting force they had become. The day also yielded the revolution’s first female hero: it was at Monmouth Court House that Molly Pitcher, who had been supplying water to the troops throughout the day, reportedly took her husband’s place at the cannon when he was carried off the field.

  For Lee, the Battle of Monmouth was disastrous. With his pride deeply wounded by Washington’s actions, Lee flew into a fit of rage and began a letter-writing campaign that might charitably be described as unwise. Writing to the Virginia congressman Richard Henry Lee (no relation) on June 29, Lee railed against Washington’s decision to engage the enemy at Monmouth, writing “what the devil brought us into this level country (the very element of the enemy) or what interest we can have (in our present circumstances) to hazard an action, somebody else must tell you, for I cannot.” His June 30 letter to Washington went further. Lee insisted “that nothing but the misinformation of some very stupid, or misrepresentation of some very wicked person, could have occasioned your making use of such very singular expressions as you did, on my coming up to the ground where you had taken post.” The retreat, Lee claimed, had been necessary. In fact, he added, “I can assert that to these maneuvers the success of the day was entirely owing.” Accusing Washington of having committed “an act of cruel injustice,” he asked whether the commander in chief believed him to be guilty “of disobedience of orders, of want of conduct, or want of courage.” Whatever the charge, Lee demanded an opportunity to refute it before a court-martial. Lee was arrested that day, and his court-martial began before the week was out. He was found guilty on three separate charges, and never served under America’s colors again.

  Lafayette emerged from the Battle of Monmouth a closer comrade to Washington. In his memoirs, Lafayette wrote that they “passed the night on the same cloak” and discussed Lee’s perfidious behavior. Lafayette’s star was rising, and it was about to soar far higher.

  Lafayette saw his next step clearly. Having found battlefield distinction in America, he hoped that he might be welcomed back into the French fold. When Lafayette learned that the French fleet had been spotted off the coast of Maryland, it seemed that his opportunity had arrived. At last, he thought, he might don his country’s uniform.

  The twelve French ships of the line and four frigates that appeared in American waters on July 5, 1778, had sailed from Toulon three months earlier under the command of Admiral Charles Hector d’Estaing— a man who was much accomplished but little loved. In three decades of military service, the forty-eight-year-old d’Estaing had been stationed around the globe, risen to the ranks of both general and admiral, and received nearly every decoration available to him. Yet he had also acquired a reputation for being a meddler whose poor judgment hobbled his leadership. In 1778, d’Estaing’s habit of inserting himself into matters better left to others prompted the gossipy publication known as L’espion anglois to predict that he would sow “ill will and insubordination” among the men who sailed for America. “I fear for this campaign,” opined the author. Bearing out this forecast, an anonymous pamphlet written by a disgruntled officer four years later decried the admiral’s “haughty and presumptuous” character and blamed d’Estaing’s distasteful personality and routine abuses of power for generating widespread enmity that ultimately damaged the mission.

  Arrogant though d’Estaing may have been, he appeared to hold Lafayette’s future in his hands, and Lafayette greeted him accordingly. In a long and effusive letter of welcome, Lafayette established common cause with the admiral, emphasizing their shared Auvergnat ancestry and promising to collect and pass along intelligence concerning British maneuvers. At length, Lafayette broached the matter that was dearest to his heart: his desire to fight in the French service. “However pleasantly situated I am in America,” he wrote, “I have always thought … that I would prefer to be a soldier under the French flag than a general officer anywhere else.” Echoing the sentiments he had already expressed to Théveneau de Francy, Lafayette assured d’Est
aing that, if France should decide to wage war against British interests in any part of the world—the East Indies, the Antilles, Europe—he would “leave at once” to join the cause. Writing again ten days later, Lafayette clarified that he had “no other ambition” than “to seem worthy to you of being a French soldier and of serving in this capacity under your orders.”

  In the weeks after the fleet’s arrival, Lafayette threw himself into a whirl of activity that earned him d’Estaing’s gratitude and admiration. In an autumn report to the French Ministry of the Marine, d’Estaing praised the young marquis, noting that “no one was better situated to serve as a link” between France and America. And although d’Estaing sometimes bristled at what he termed Lafayette’s “extreme impatience,” he understood that Lafayette’s “zeal,” coupled with “his valor, and his wisdom” helped to counteract the “incalculable slowness” that he encountered in his dealings with the Americans. Indeed, no one could have been more enthusiastic than Lafayette about the task at hand. Between July 14 and July 30, Lafayette sent at least six separate letters to d’Estaing. He provided introductions to Washington’s aides-de-camp Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens (Henry’s son) and supplied context for missives from Washington. He reported on British activities in New York, sent encrypted messages concerning American plans, and engaged skilled pilots in an effort to salvage d’Estaing’s doomed attempts to navigate the shoals off New Jersey and enter New York Harbor. On July 30, en route to Rhode Island after giving up plans to attack New York, d’Estaing expressed his thanks to Lafayette, who, he predicted, would inevitably succeed in winning “the opinion and the aid” that would be “the first necessity” of a new campaign planned against the British at Newport. “You know how to get everything going,” d’Estaing wrote to Lafayette, who was then marching northward, leading two American brigades overland from White Plains to Rhode Island. There, they would serve under Major General John Sullivan, who was to lead American ground troops in a joint land and sea offensive against the British and Hessian forces occupying Newport and its surrounding islands. “You will have acquired an even greater share of glory before I have the honor of embracing you,” d’Estaing forecast.