THERE WAS SOMETHING to be said for these criticisms. Trustworthy though Steuben may have been, Varnum’s concern about sensitive information was a valid and understandable one. So, too, is there a grain of truth to the complaint about the scope of the Baron’s authority. While the training was in full swing, Steuben’s power over the troops was indeed second only to Washington’s.
On the other hand, Varnum’s complaints—which were by no means voiced only by the Rhode Island brigadier—reflected social, political, and cultural differences between him and Steuben. Although the Continental Army was striving for professionalism, there was something very egalitarian about the officer corps. Continental officers, as a group, were loath to give up their authority, even if only temporarily, not even when the reasons were solid ones. They were very sensitive about their “rights,” even when the protection of those rights stood in the way of progress.
The Baron, however, came from an army in which neither officers nor men pretended to have rights, and from a society in which competency and efficiency were prized commodities. From his perspective, the good of the service was the goal; it came before the feelings of individual officers. Training the army in such a short time required the concentration of all the necessary powers into the hands of the most qualified leaders. Good officers would understand this; others would just have to come to terms with it.
Steuben could not comprehend how anyone could raise objections to his actions as inspector general, especially when all orders concerning training had been issued through Washington’s headquarters and not his. The results spoke for themselves.
Hence resistance to his methods troubled him. Innumerable petty objections absorbed much of his time and energy. In early June 1778, for example, he directed the brigade inspectors to find out how many soldiers each brigade furnished daily for guard duty, so that he could work out a rotation schedule that drew guards equitably from each regiment. He also asked for the names of all field officers, so that regimental drills could be scheduled at General Washington’s pleasure. One of his brigade inspectors immediately ran into problems with these harmless requests. The major of his assigned brigade refused to provide him with the information desired: he was under strict orders, he said, not to provide “returns”—reports of unit strengths—to anyone.
In the face of such unyielding obstinacy, there was little the Baron could do. Territorial squabbles between him and the Varnums of the army kept him from doing his job. As John Laurens pointed out sadly to his father a few days later, “some Jealousies against [Steuben] have occasioned him great trouble, and interrupted his progress in the Military instruction.”21
Steuben’s response to this kind of resistance revealed that he did not fully understand the politics of the army, or the kind of pressures Washington had to deal with on a day-to-day basis. If individual officers were going to protest the extent of his authority, and if those protests kept him from doing what Washington had ordered him to do, then in his mind there was only one possible solution: to expand his authority even farther.
It did not help that Congress had not yet decided exactly what the inspector general was supposed to do, or how far he could go in doing it. There was more to being inspector general than just teaching drill, but Congress had not yet bothered to stipulate what those responsibilities might entail, or even where the inspector general fit within the chain of command.
So, late in May, Steuben began work on a proposal for the organization of the inspector general’s office, to be submitted to the Board of War for its approval. His early draft proposals reflected his frustration with the “obstacles thrown in his way.” Some of his ideas were clearly excessive. One, for example, gave the inspector general total authority over all “matters of discipline and military police”; without exception, any officer or enlisted man who did not obey the orders of the inspector or his assistants would be subject to immediate court-martial.22
The Board of War did not raise any significant objection to the tone or scope of Steuben’s proposed regulations. The Board, after all, was happy with the Baron. He had accomplished what Washington’s generals had not been able to, and as Steuben had made no demands on them, financial or otherwise, they were inclined to give him whatever he wanted.
But the Board, prudently, decided to sound out Washington, and Washington did what he did best: to keep peace within the army. Washington knew Steuben’s worth, and did not feel threatened by the Baron in any way, but he recognized the rancor that would result if Steuben’s ideas were implemented. So, instead of trying to negotiate with Congress and the Baron, the general-in-chief took the matter into his own hands.
In orders dated June 15, 1778, Washington made his own provisions for the conduct of the inspector general and presented them to the army. The purpose of the inspector general’s office, he declared, was to institute “a System of Rules & Regulations for the exercise of the Troops in the Manual & Manœuvres,” to establish some order in guard duty and the “internal Police of Camps and Garrisons.” These “Rules & Regulations,” however, would first have to be approved by the commander in chief, and then they would be issued as orders by Washington himself—not by Steuben. From now on, generals and field officers would take charge of drilling their respective commands, although a representative of the inspector’s office would attend to assist them and to ensure that the regulations were indeed being followed.
It was a brilliant order, demonstrating the very qualities that made Washington such a great leader. He reduced Steuben to the position of a mere staff officer, who could not act independently of the commander in chief, thereby negating any complaint about the inspector’s excessive authority. At the same time, he made the generals and the field officers responsible for seeing to it that the new regulations were enforced and the new drill put into practice. If Steuben’s regulations were not followed to the letter, then the generals and the regimental commanders would have to answer to Washington, not to the Baron. Finally, Washington’s order married Steuben’s authority to his own. Since every measure the inspector introduced would have to go through general headquarters, the inspector spoke for Washington. At one stroke, Washington silenced those critics who thought the inspector’s power excessive, and yet augmented that same power so that it was unquestionable.23
Steuben did not object outright to the order. On the surface, he seemed to be pleased with it. “It gives me great Satisfaction,” he wrote to Washington, “to see that Your Excellency has taken such a wise Step…as to engage the General Officers and the Field Officers…to take Command of the Troops in our daily Exercise.” He meant this sincerely; he wanted the officers to take charge of drill. But the rest of his letter fairly reeked with sarcasm. He had taken charge of drill, he told Washington—clearly tongue in cheek—because he had hoped to “save [the officers] the trouble of descending to those Toilsome & fastidious details which we chearfully [sic] encountered from the beginning for the good of the Service.” He concluded the letter with a request for leave, so he could see friends in York.24
Washington praised the Baron for his flexibility—“the army has derived every advantage from the institution under you, that could be expected in so short a time”—but underneath the passivity of Steuben’s response the commanding general detected something that was not quite right. And he worried about the request to travel to York. Steuben claimed that he only wanted to visit friends. Washington didn’t buy it. He feared that Steuben planned to meet with his supporters in Congress, with the intention of amending Washington’s order and cajoling the Board of War into fashioning an “inspectorate” that suited his aspirations.25
This Washington could not tolerate, even if he had stood behind the Baron during the reforms in March and April. Steuben could not be allowed to compromise the carefully managed harmony in the high command. He would have to be headed off.
Before Steuben left for York, Washington gave him confidential letters to be handed to Henry Laurens and the young New York d
elegate William Duer. To Laurens, Washington merely hinted at his suspicions, while taking care to add that the Baron had been of great service. With Duer, the general was brutally candid…and secretive, for the letter was written in Alex Hamilton’s hand and bore the aide’s signature as well. But the words were clearly Washington’s: “It will not be amiss to be on your guard,” he warned Duer. “The baron is a gentleman for whom I have a particular esteem…. But I am apprehensive, with all his good qualities, a fondness for power and importance, natural to every man, may lead him to wish for more extensive prerogatives in his department than it will be for the good of the service to grant.”
When Washington had first made Steuben the acting inspector general, he related to Duer, he had allowed him a great deal of latitude, necessary for accomplishing so much in so short a period of time. He had to curtail these powers earlier than he had anticipated because some officers had reacted badly. “The novelty of the office excited questions about its boundaries; the extent of its operations alarmed the officers of every rank for their own rights.” Their “jealousies and discontents” had grown so heated, Washington feared, that the success of Steuben’s reforms might be “overturned.” Hopefully the general orders of June 15 would set everything right, but Duer would still have to keep an eye on the touchy Prussian:
There is one thing which the baron has much at heart, which, in good policy, he can by no means be indulged in: it is the power of enforcing that part of the discipline which we understand by subordination, or an obedience to orders. This power can only be properly lodged in the commander in chief and would inflame the whole army if put in other hands.
Washington was very close to being entirely correct. What motivated Steuben was not so much a hunger for power for its own sake, but a desire for accomplishment and efficiency that pushed him to be overzealous. His style of leadership, which owed to his Prussian up-bringing, was geared solely toward results, and did not take the personalities and feelings of other officers into account. In the Continental Army such considerations were paramount. Washington understood this, but Steuben did not.26
For the moment, though, Steuben’s sometimes autocratic manner was a moot point. The British were on the move, and the long sojourn at Valley Forge was coming to an end.
CHAPTER 7
Trial by Combat
[JUNE 1778]
All of my undertakings here have met with the most fortunate progress.
STEUBEN TO DANIEL MARIANUS FRANK,
JULY 4, 17791
STEUBEN WAS PREPARING for his trip to York when the news came: the British were leaving Philadelphia.
The Baron’s mind was occupied with other matters, things that concerned him personally and professionally. Then came the intelligence about the evacuation, passed along on the morning of June 17 to Washington’s headquarters by a Philadelphia washerwoman who laundered the uniforms of high-ranking British officers. Sir Henry Clinton’s army was going to give up its foothold in eastern Pennsylvania and retreat, possibly to New York City. That very morning, the advance elements of the British army were already in the process of crossing the Delaware into New Jersey.
Washington had anxiously anticipated this development—he had, in fact, been planning for it from early spring. He had already sent portions of William Maxwell’s New Jersey Brigade to reinforce Jersey militia across the Delaware, to monitor any move the British might make, but this force was not strong enough to do anything more than harass Clinton’s troops—if they actually retreated in that direction. Washington would not have to do anything, really, for by crossing the Delaware, Clinton showed that he was not interested in marching on Valley Forge. But if the American commander wanted to take a chance and try to destroy part or all of Clinton’s army before it could reach the safety of New York, he would have to act now.
Gut instinct told Washington to attack, that here was an opportunity not to be missed, but where it came to strategy Washington led by consensus. He wanted to hear what his generals had to say. On the evening of the seventeenth, Washington assembled all of his major generals—Charles Lee, Nathanael Greene, Benedict Arnold, Lord Stirling, the Marquis de Lafayette, and Steuben—and most of his brigadiers at his Valley Forge headquarters, the Isaac Potts house. The general-in-chief laid out what he knew of Clinton’s movements, gave his frank assessment of the condition of the Continental Army, and asked his generals to present their views on the strategic options. Should the army remain at Valley Forge and wait for another opportunity? Should Washington send a detachment to reinforce the brigade in New Jersey? Or should he hazard it all and send the entire army from Valley Forge to attack the British directly as they made their painfully slow exit from Philadelphia?
Their responses could not have pleased him much. Two of his brigadiers—including, predictably, the pugnacious Anthony Wayne—favored a “general engagement,” an outright attack; Nathanael Greene supported this view, as did Lafayette, albeit with some reservations. But the rest, the majority, counselled caution. Charles Lee stated outright that the Americans were not ready for an open battle with the British, and probably never would be.
Steuben was also circumspect. Clinton, he feared, might be trying to lure Washington into a trap. The British had done so at Barren Hill, less than a month before. Now the stakes were much higher. Washington should follow the retreat carefully, sending a substantial body of troops to cover the fords of the Delaware above Trenton and to observe Clinton’s movements. If Clinton’s objective was indeed New York, the Baron suggested, then Washington would be certain of it and could bring up the main army if circumstances warranted it.2
So the army would watch and wait. With no pressing business other than his desire to meet with the Board of War, Steuben rode out from Valley Forge for York the very next morning.
The Baron was still on the road to York—mounted, presumably, on one of the two “fine horses” given to him by Congress three weeks before—when a courier from headquarters caught up with him. He brought new orders from Washington: Steuben must return to camp immediately. The British had completely evacuated Philadelphia and had crossed into New Jersey; Washington, in response, was sending nearly his entire army—some thirteen thousand men—in pursuit. Cutting his trip short, Steuben wheeled about and spurred his horse back to the Forge.
When he reached camp later that day, the entire army was on the move. Washington had hoped so keenly for a chase that he had already written Lee’s marching orders three weeks before, and now altered them slightly to accord to present circumstances. Lee’s advance guard of three brigades had left at 3:00 P.M., followed by Wayne’s division at five o’clock. The main body, under Lafayette and the Baron de Kalb, would march out at four o’clock the next morning, and Lord Stirling’s rear guard would wait until the morning of the twenty-first. The army headed not to Philadelphia, but rather to the north and east: to Coryell’s Ferry on the Delaware, just west of Princeton. If Clinton hoped to make it safely to New York, no matter by which route, he would have to cut north. By moving east, the Continentals could catch up to the British without any forced marches or Herculean efforts.
The chase was on.
Washington had a significant advantage. Because he had reacted so quickly, the British had only a shadow of a head start. The American line of march was no longer than the one Clinton would have to follow, and the Americans travelled much lighter. And once the British entered New Jersey, they encountered resistance. Maxwell’s New Jersey Continentals, supplemented by the Jersey militia under Philemon Dickinson, harassed Clinton’s scarlet-clad columns practically from the moment the British set foot on the east bank of the Delaware at Cooper’s Ferry. The Jerseymen did not risk an open battle, but instead hurriedly destroyed bridges immediately in front of Clinton’s army, stopping occasionally to fire on the passing Redcoats from barns, mills, and farmhouses along the route. They were no more than an annoyance to Clinton, but that was their intention: the Jersey troops forced Clinton to deploy skirmishers on h
is flanks, while the entire army had to pause for burned and shattered bridges to be rebuilt.
And then there was the heat, the unforgiving, unrelenting heat. Those who recorded their recollections of the New Jersey campaign of 1778—British, German, or American—noted this above all other miseries. There were a few severe downpours over the next nine days, which transformed the dirt roads into nearly impassible quagmires, but during the day the brutal heat always returned. Temperatures soared well into the nineties. Both sides suffered, but the British appear to have gotten the worst of it. Dehydrated, exhausted men dropped in frighteningly large numbers, felled by heatstroke. Johann Ewald, a captain in the Hessian light infantry (Jäger) corps, noted that “no water was to be found on the entire march.”3
There was something more behind the sluggishness of Clinton’s retreat than the vicissitudes of a harsh summer. Clinton’s cumbersome baggage train—some fifteen thousand wagons carrying the personal belongings of the officers, spare camp equipage, and all the comforts of home taken from Philadelphia—slowed the army, as did the unusually large number of noncombatants that followed in the army’s wake. Alongside the British columns walked some one thousand civilians, including more than seven hundred women and children. This was hardly out of character for European armies, which often resembled travelling cities, and the British army was one of the worst offenders in this regard.
And Clinton was not in any particular hurry. He did not savor the idea of a clash with Washington, but neither did he shrink from it. The British had a significant advantage over the Americans in sheer numbers: roughly twenty thousand troops of all types, as opposed to thirteen thousand Continentals, exclusive of militia. With such an advantage, neither Clinton nor his officers harbored any real concern that they might be “burgoyn’d”—that is, trapped, cut off, and forced into a humiliating surrender, the fate of “Gentleman Johnny” Burgoyne’s army at Saratoga the previous year. The British took their time, in other words, because they had no fear.
The Drillmaster of Valley Forge Page 15