Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  Enough food was being swept out of this one valley to feed the army at Valley Forge for a month; instead it was going into the overstuffed larders of the enemy. If he was in command and the locals had not been willing to sell…he would have burned it all, scorched the earth for a dozen miles around Philadelphia, and then watched them starve in the city.

  This was for him now a war of no quarter.

  Raging with frustration, he drew his pistol, aimed it in the direction of the dragoons, and fired.

  Distant laughter echoed back seconds later, followed by another call of the foxhunters.

  “Ten minutes’ rest here,” Morgan announced, breathing hard, as he pointed north, “then we pull back another mile. They’re still on to us.”

  No one spoke. Wayne could see that more than a few would not get up again, but instead would burrow under the leaves and hope to hide till nightfall.

  Morgan looked at Wayne.

  “Helluva lot of good that did,” he said, and pointed at the still smoking pistol.

  “At least it did something here in my soul, Colonel,” and he pointed to his heart. “Damn all of them, we’re not giving up. Just once, just once I want to see their backs and, by God, hear them plead for quarter.”

  Valley Forge

  December 26, 1777

  It had been a cheerless Christmas. The minds of all, Washington knew, were dwelling on the past, on what they had achieved but a year ago. As for dinner, one of his guard details had come in with an old sow, enlisted men and officers sharing alike. No amount of effort by Billy Lee and the company cook could render it more than barely chewable. The last of Mrs. Hewes’s stockpile of potatoes were added in, along with some boiled ears of Indian corn the men had scavenged from a muddy field.

  He had ridden around the camp, offering Christmas greetings to each of the brigades. The sense of near rebellion of three days before had stilled somewhat. The most troublesome of the soldiers, close on to a thousand, had simply deserted. Others were just too sick to complain. As for the rest, there had been something of a Christmas miracle after all. Twenty head of cattle and two wagonloads of potatoes and one of flour had come in, actually gathered up by some patriots over at Plymouth Meeting as a present to the army. He had not pressed too hard on the inquiry as to how they obtained them. The gift givers were rather closed-mouthed when General Greene inquired as to where this largesse had come from.

  It was enough for two full days of rations, and at that moment, to have an extra day’s rations on hand seemed indeed to be a Christmas miracle almost as profound as the one of a year before.

  The weather had at least moderated, skies clear, temperature until late morning above freezing. It had been a blessing but brought with it a midday thaw. Until the roads were paved with corduroy logs, the pathways and supply roads would be calf-deep quagmires.

  Washington turned back from the window, delaying the next meeting for a few more minutes, a deliberate move, making the person he was about to receive wait and thereby know, even before they started, precisely where he stood.

  He turned his attention back to the letter on his desk, a copy of correspondence between General Gates and the current president of Congress, John Laurens. Laurens would not have been his first choice after John Hancock resigned, but then again most definitely not his last. The copy of the correspondence had been forwarded up by “a friend,” and contained with it the gossip of what was transpiring in York.

  Gates was fuming to Laurens about “leaks” of his own correspondence, and Washington smiled as he read the accusation. It was a war, an open war between the two now, one that had been simmering ever since a year before, when Gates had refused to cross the Delaware in support of the attack on Trenton, and then stayed on to politic with Congress when they so cravenly fled to Baltimore during the dark autumn of ’76.

  He knew Gates had his informers right here at Valley Forge, spreading rumors, and, of course, he had his own sources in York. He would indeed be a naïve fool if he had not. The duplicity of Gates was now all too apparent. The man was openly maneuvering to use the victory at Saratoga, which he had arrogated to himself, stealing most of the true glory from those who had earned it, such as Arnold and Morgan, as his stepping-stone to what he believed should rightfully have been his all along.

  What was enraging, though, was the nearly open accusation from Gates to Laurens that whoever had leaked their correspondence, had, without doubt, leaked information as well to the British. Then Gates went on to make the absurd claim that he, Washington, would not be above such an act if by so doing he could somehow retain command.

  That burned deeply, and he read it several times. What burned as well was that a man he had once counted as a friend, Benjamin Rush, had switched sides in this fight and now belonged to the party that felt that command of the armies had to be changed. To Washington’s deep personal sadness, Rush was now supporting Gates.

  He reread the letter one more time, committing it to memory, crumbled it up, and threw it in the fireplace. He trusted his staff, but in such matters he could never be so foolish as to risk the random chance of someone’s finding the letter and sending it back to Laurens and Gates.

  And now to the next task. One that his correspondent had warned him of. “Major Hamilton!”

  The door flew open as if the young artilleryman had been hovering on the other side. It startled him for a brief instant, and after what he had just read there was a sudden wondering. But a look at the twenty-year-old he had picked out to serve on his staff after repeated displays of gallantry, from Trenton through to Brandywine, told him yet again that this boy was loyal.

  “Show the officer in and then close the door.”

  Hamilton stepped back from the open door.

  “Colonel Conway, the general will see you now.”

  Washington did not let a flicker of expression change. He knew Hamilton had just opened the meeting with a deliberate insult.

  The short, burly officer stepped halfway into the room, stopped, and turned his back on Washington without offering a salute or bow of acknowledgement.

  “Your name, boy?” he snapped.

  “Major Hamilton.”

  “You are addressing Major General Conway, boy.”

  Hamilton stiffened but did not reply. There were a few seconds of tension, Hamilton looking straight into his eyes.

  “Sir, the general awaits you,” was all that Hamilton offered in reply. He gestured for Conway to turn, and, withdrawing, he closed the door.

  Washington made it a point to remain seated. He was tall enough that he was near to eye level anyhow with Conway, who, red-faced, turned to face him.

  “Your staff needs a lesson in manners and etiquette, sir,” Conway announced sharply. It was loud enough so that those out in the small corridor could easily hear.

  “Sir, when you address me,” Washington replied coolly, “you will do so as a gentleman, and not shout as if we are in a tavern. Do I make myself clear?”

  Conway did not reply.

  “As to Major Hamilton’s greeting, sir. The last we saw you with this army, your rank was that of colonel. I have not been officially informed of any change in that rank, nor presented with papers which require me or my staff to recognize and acknowledge promotion to such a rank.”

  He stared straight at the man, someone he had actually trusted only a few months before. Born in Ireland, Conway had fled to France as a young man, entered their army, and served twenty years with distinction. He had then become part of the flood of professional soldiers who had all but swamped America over the last year, arriving from Europe with flowery letters of introduction and the usual endorsements of brilliance. All of them sought high rank, commensurate, of course, with their vast professional experience, to now serve the cause of freedom. Unlike Lafayette, who had come as a gentleman volunteer, announcing he was willing to serve if need be as a private in the ranks, Conway had bulled his way through Congress and emerged with a promise of a colonelcy which Washin
gton had reluctantly agreed to, and signed the man’s commissioning papers. At Germantown he had proven himself as having some skill, but in the bitter months after that fight, he had suddenly found reason to head off with Congress as it fled to Lancaster and then York.

  Of course, Washington knew that, clinging to their coattails, Conway had joined with Gates, Mifflin, and others. He also knew that but a few weeks past Conway had finagled not just a promotion to the rank of major general, but a new post created by Gates’s Board of War. He was to be inspector general of the armies.

  It was a position that many had urged Washington to create, and he had agreed. In the role, Conway was to advise the commander as to the means of improving the condition of the soldiers; give recommendations as to promotions and, when needed, demotions; see to the general improvement of the welfare of the troops and act on their behalf; and provide a system of training and organization. A man holding that position, if on his side, Washington had reasoned, could be a powerful voice for the reforms for which he had been begging. An enemy in the position could be deadly. He would be a spy free to move among the ranks, garner support, write whatever reports he pleased in secret, and maneuver for the political gain of others.

  For the moment, Washington could still minimize Conway’s role on the technicality that one of the powers granted to him as commander of all armies was the power to approve or veto promotions to the rank of general, and that the request for this man had yet to cross his desk. He sensed it was a game, a struggle between the power Gates claimed as head of the Board of War and his own authority as commander of the armies.

  Conway was serving as Gates’s stalking horse. For that matter, he might even be stalking for himself…and Washington detested him as much for his personal ambition as for his lack of loyalty.

  Washington leaned back in his chair, still refusing to stand.

  “Sir, I have received no official letter of confirmation from Congress as to your promotion to the rank of major general and inspector general of the armies. And might I add that, by the authorization given to me by Congress as commander of all armies, I have and still do retain the right and authority to approve or disapprove of any promotions granted to the forces of the Continental forces for the ranks of colonel and above.”

  Conway bristled, features darkening.

  “Sir,” Conway replied, “you undoubtedly know that with the establishment of the Board of War, of which General Gates is now director, the power to grant promotions and offices of position rests with that body as well.”

  “Regardless, I have seen no signed documentation affirming your promotion. While in this encampment, sir, you will be addressed as Colonel.”

  He seethed inside with this dueling of words. The contemptible Board of War was leading straight to an open confrontation, and this man was leading the charge. If he denied its power, created by Congress, he could be charged with mutiny. He was in a way trapped by his own position. Throughout, in spite of their utter failures, he had affirmed again and again that the army must answer to the civilian authority. If not, the Revolution would devolve into a bitter civil war, a mad scramble for power by rival generals so that even if they did gain victory over England, one tyranny in the end would simply be replaced by another. He would not play the role Cromwell had in the English Civil War and lead his army to take power. That would betray every republican principle he believed in.

  Could the members of Congress not see where this was leading? If his resignation was demanded by the majority of Congress, by his own code of conduct he would comply. He had, however, the measure of Gates and those around him. They would lose the war by spring, unable to hold what was left of this army together. And even if they did win, afterward a Caesar-like scramble for power would ensue. This man was but the spearhead of that threat.

  “However you address me,” Conway retorted, “as inspector general I must state my shock, my absolute shock at the condition of the army that I see literally at your doorstep.”

  “I am fully aware of the condition of the men, sir. Believe me, I am fully aware. I have been living their lack of supplies every day.”

  “I have been out among them these last few days, sent here by Congress to examine the situation and then render a full report,” Conway replied. “Are you aware that more than half the men are without shoes, thousands of them near naked and fully exposed to the climate?” Conway hesitated, looking at the fireplace. “Though at least it can be said that some of the officers are warm and dry.”

  Washington stood up, chair falling back, and leaned forward, balled fists resting on the desk. A lifetime of discipline, of keeping passions in check, was trembling at the breaking point. To strike this man would be a pleasure. It would also end his command, for it was obvious the man was deliberately baiting him.

  Conway stepped back. The controlled temper and even demeanor of Washington were legendary among those who served with him, and yet there had been moments when that passion had come to the surface. A towering giant of a man, capable of holding an iron bar or double-bladed axe out rigidly without trembling, a man who could stay in the saddle for days on end, he had the physical strength to kill a man with a single blow if ever pressed far enough.

  The knowledge of such physical strength was exactly one of the reasons why, when still a young man, Washington had struggled within to control his passions. Dueling was part of the way of life of more than a few from his world. He had gone a lifetime without ever engaging in what he saw as folly and little better than murder. And yet there were times when he felt so angered that it was only with supreme self-control that he managed to turn an insult aside. This was such a moment.

  But his gaze, without doubt, conveyed his inner wishes, and Conway backed off.

  “Of course, sir,” Conway replied quickly, voice trembling slightly, “I mean no insult—a commander must have proper quarters in which to carry on the business of the army.”

  Washington said nothing, not offering to accept the weak attempt at apology.

  “I am, though, sir,” Conway added, “entitled to acknowledgment of my rank with proper observation of that rank from your brigadier generals as I go about my business.”

  Washington replied bluntly in a firm, controlled voice the more menacing for its lack of passion or anger. “My various brigadiers, as you call them, are men who have served with me since Trenton, some from before Long Island and some as far back as Boston. You, sir, have only arrived upon our shores these six months past and now you claim an exalted rank?”

  “General Washington, you without doubt know that the office of inspector general in Europe carries with it the rank of major general and, in some of the more advanced armies, the rank of lieutenant general.”

  In spite of his rage at this man, Conway’s arrogance was such that Washington actually fought with the desire to burst out laughing. Six months and already he sought rank second only in command to himself. And he could see in that instant that if given enough rope, this pompous popinjay would hang himself in the end. But for the moment he was dangerous, extremely dangerous.

  “Of course, sir,” Conway continued, “the Great Frederick, who it was my honor to meet in Prussia, and you the Great Washington here in America, understand how such things are organized and done.”

  This was truly too much! Washington took a deep breath. “When I receive such verification from Congress I will render appropriate judgment,” he finally said.

  “After completing my inspection I will return to York tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps, then, you may point out that the Commissary Department of Congress is still required to supply this army with rations, tools, medicine, uniforms, and other supplies as promised before I arrived here.”

  “At times an army in the field, when engaged in active campaigning, must see to such things itself,” Conway replied haughtily. “It is the responsibility of the commander in the field—at least thus I observed at times in European campaigns fought by professionals.”


  He thanked God that what Conway had just said had not been uttered in front of the staff, for though he himself would not call the man out, his entire staff would be lining up with the offer of pistols at dawn.

  He leaned forward again, fixing Conway with an icy gaze.

  “This is not a war of king against king,” he said slowly, each word measured, pitched to barely above a whisper. “It is not a war of rampaging armies, despoiling everything in their path. Every farmer stripped bare by one side will surely go to the other. Congress knows that. We won back New Jersey at the start of this year because of the depredations of the British when they occupied it. Howe realizes that now and is playing the same game, offering hard currency for supplies. Congress must somehow do the same, and you may tell them that for me.”

  “And the letters of remonstration?” Conway replied, shifting position. “Do you intend to respond to the one from New Jersey to now protect those who were loyal to us? Do you intend to move out of this skulking place and protect those on that side of the Schuylkill River?”

  “Sir, your position is not one that requires me to discuss my strategy and plans with you,” Washington replied icily.

  “But as to the letters of remonstration,” Washington went on. “Please convey, in whatever role it is you now operate under, that this army needs, today, ten thousand uniforms, ten thousand pairs of boots or proper winter shoes, and at least a quarter of a million rounds of ammunition for muskets and ten thousand rounds for the artillery. Oh, yes, and sufficient tools for the construction of housing, fortifications, and roads. Might I add as well a quarter of a million rations a week, along with fodder for more than a thousand horses? All such things were promised to me months ago and I am still waiting. That message alone, sir, should keep you busy enough.”

  “The letters of remonstration?” Conway pressed again. “You will obey them, of course.”

  “You have my answer.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, I assume you do.”