The officer standing in the doorway smiled, extending his hand. “Please, do not let me disturb your meal,” he announced.
It was Lafayette.
“So you think more than a hundred and fifty will leave us?” Lafayette asked.
“Well, sir,” Justin replied, not at all ruffled, “it stands to reason, don’t it?”
“How so?”
“Three thousand men marched off today. Enlistments for half of those left here run out before spring. Stay here and starve, or light out while you still can.”
“And you, soldier? Why, then, do you stay?”
Justin, ever playing the role of the cynic, looked around at his comrades and shrugged.
“The sergeant here would hunt me down and shoot me if I ran,” he said with a grin.
Harris looked over at him.
“You can leave any time you want, Justin Putnam,” Harris replied, barely sparing him a glance. “Same stands for all of you sons of bitches.”
He looked back up at Lafayette.
“Sorry, begging your pardon, sir.”
Lafayette smiled and shook his head.
“No offense. I am still learning my English. Let us see, you called your men sons of dogs, is that it?”
A round of chuckles greeted him and Peter smiled.
There had been little if any respect for this effete-looking Frenchman when he first showed up with the army. As for the Virginians of the guard company, more than a few had fought against the French along the frontier in the last war. Besides, he was barely more than twenty, but because of some noble title, the very thing they were fighting against, he was all but automatically a general.
And yet, Lafayette had finally won over the headquarters company directly responsible for guarding the general’s life—first, by insisting he sought no rank whatsoever and would fight as a private volunteer. Major Tilghman then tipped those in the headquarters off that this young man had the direct ear of the king of France, and that if anyone could help to wrangle out new uniforms, muskets, and rations, it was Lafayette. For that reason alone they should play along with the pretense.
His all but worshipful approach to Washington was, at first, in the eyes of more than a few, defined as little better than bootlicking. Over time, however, derision gave way to at least a level of respect: that this strange young man actually did indeed admire and love their general. He also appeared to revel in hardship. While other generals were quick to find dry, warm quarters, Lafayette could often be found out on the picket line in the very eye of a driving storm, ready to share a warming flask of cognac with a private, practice his English with the sentry, and then go off on some strange talk about Voltaire, Locke, and others, confusing most of his listeners, though Peter at least found he could follow some of what he said, as long as he spoke slowly.
The final doubts were laid to rest at Brandywine when the line broke. For several long and frightful minutes it appeared that Washington himself would be shot or, worse, captured, and Lafayette had personally ridden to his rescue, rallying some men and staying in the saddle even after taking the bullet in the leg, which had almost cost him that limb and his life.
So these grim men, some more than twice his age, chuckled at his attempt at mastering English, his joke about the term “son of a bitch”—after so long with the army, surely he was familiar with the term.
“Well, sir, ’tis better than saying that one has merde for brains,” Justin replied.
Lafayette threw back his head and laughed, though only Peter and a few others got the joke, and Peter was more than a bit shocked by the temerity Justin had shown.
“So why do you stay?” Lafayette asked, smiling, but his tone now serious as he looked at Justin.
“Merde for brains, I guess,” he replied with a shrug.
Peter blushed over such a flippant answer.
“And you, soldier? Peter Wellsley, is it?”
Peter looked up with surprise to see Lafayette smiling, directing the question now at him.
“Well, sir,” and he started to come to his feet.
“No, no, I insist, please be at ease,” and even as he spoke, Lafayette went down on one knee, the gesture bringing him into the edge of the group.
Peter found he couldn’t respond.
“The question is with you, Jersey,” Justin said with a grin. “Go on, why do you insist upon hanging about with us Virginians?”
“Americans,” Peter replied quietly, looking back at Justin. “We’re all the same in this outfit.”
There were grunts of approval from others in the circle.
“Why do they call you Jersey?” Lafayette asked.
“He ain’t from our state,” Sergeant Harris interjected, “but I’ll vouch for him, even if most of his neighbors are Tories.”
“Then why are you not with a Jersey regiment? There are several with this army of good standing.”
“I didn’t like the one I was with. So I joined these madmen,” Peter offered, trying to smile, his reply greeted with laughter.
“No, seriously,” Lafayette said. “I am curious. You Americans seem so concerned about which colony or, now, state that you come from, when I would say you are all Americans first, and I hope I can perhaps earn the honor of being called an American, too.”
“You already have, sir,” Harris offered, and there were grunts of approval from the others, which caused the young Frenchman to smile and then blush.
He fumbled for a few seconds, cleared his throat, obviously deeply touched and honored by Harris’s words, and then looked back at Peter questioningly.
“Well, sir. I was with a Jersey militia unit a year ago. My closest friend and I…” His voice trailed off for a moment and he swallowed hard with the memory of Jonathan. “My friend and I volunteered to serve as guides for the Christmas night attack on Trenton, since that is where we grew up. After the battle, I asked the general if I could stay on with this detail. He agreed and I was entered on the muster roll.”
“And your friend?” Lafayette asked.
“He died from the lung sickness on the march back from Trenton,” Harris quickly said, sparing Peter the embarrassment. The young man could barely speak of his friend without emotion taking hold. “He was a brave lad, as is this one. We were honored to have him join us after that fight. Peter guided the general at Princeton as well and has done right good service since.”
Peter nodded his thanks to Harris, and lowered his head, unable to reply.
Lafayette studied him closely.
“So why do you stay?”
Peter looked back up at him.
“Sir, may I ask a question in reply?”
“Certainly.”
“Why are you here?”
Lafayette stared at him intently, as if startled by the directness of the question, and those gathered around were silent.
“It is a fair question. I will answer fairly. It is because I believe in your cause. May I dare to say it is my cause?”
“And yet you are a nobleman. You hold high rank back in France, or so I have heard,” Peter asked, voice soft but firm.
“Yes, that is true, I am of noble birth. In the old world, such is the way of things. It is easy for me, having such rank. And yet I believe in what I heard and read. What is said in your Declaration, that all men are equal? You here in America, this is some new thing. It is a Revolution that I think will take the world in a direction undreamed of but a few years ago. Victorious as I know it shall be, I will take all that I learn with me back to France and hopefully plant the seeds of freedom there.”
“Would you give up your noble titles then?” Justin asked.
Lafayette looked over at him. “I cannot deny what I am. You ask a hard question, of which I am not sure I can answer. I love my king. I believe him to be a just monarch. But I love as well my country and my people. I think in France such change will come hard, but it will come, and the title given to me allows my voice to be heard. Yes, I think I would give up my title
if in so doing I could assure all men were treated the same as you fight for here. Your general, do I dare say our general, is a noble man. I think we agree upon that, do we not?”
There were nods of approval.
“I would like to see a world where men such as he can rise to the greatness they deserve regardless of birth. You and I are of near the same age, Mr. Wellsley, is it?”
“Yes,” Peter replied.
“I see nobleness in you. You have not answered my question directly but I think I know your answer. You are here because you believe in this cause and if need be will give your life for it.”
Peter did not reply. No one said anything. The Frenchman was speaking of things they rarely spoke of. Such questions themselves would bring the usual soldier’s words that they were with the army to flee from a wife, a mistress, or perhaps both, who had discovered each other’s existence and now sought vengeance. That they had escaped from jail, the bedlam asylum, anything other than the real reasons, which after the first halcyon days at the start of this war had been buried under a tidal flow of unrelenting defeats and humiliations.
“I am here because I believe as you do in your hearts,” Lafayette said softly. “The same as I know our general believes, even after the humiliation we all witnessed but a few hours ago.”
“Sunshine patriots,” one of the men grumbled. “Damn bastards, nothing but sunshine patriots.”
“They did their part,” Justin interjected. “They signed on for their terms and stuck to it and left with honor intact. They fought; many of their comrades died. And what thanks did they get? You saw them. No shoes, half of them with bloody butts from the flux. At least we got this barn to sleep in, with them still out in tents. To hell with Congress, I tell you. We die and they sit out there in York stuffing their faces, surrounded by wenches as bed warmers. Win or lose, those political bastards will survive it. Most likely they will even help to shovel us into the ground as they sign pledges to return to the king.”
There was a chorus of agreements.
Lafayette, still part of the circle, said nothing, his attention still on Peter.
“And you, how do you see them? The men who left today?”
“I’d like to think, come spring, they’ll be back.”
“If any of us are left,” Justin interjected.
“That’s true,” Peter replied. “True enough. If any of us are left.”
As he spoke, he looked straight at Lafayette.
“So what do you suggest with Congress?” Lafayette asked, looking back at Justin.
Justin smiled.
“For starters, it’s a hard choice. Shooting or hanging them all as a first step, it’s a hard choice.” He smiled. “I’m leaning toward stringing them all up. Slow like. No drop gallows to break their necks fast. Slow like so we can watch them do the open-air jig for a while before they strangle. And by God, while they dance in midair we’ll pick up the money raining from their pockets.”
Several of the men laughed, others were silent.
“That’s mutiny,” someone sighed. “You could be hanged for that yourself, Justin Putnam.”
“Then make the most of it,” Justin retorted. “Hang ’em. Shoot ’em, then let the general sort it out. By God, he’d at least see we have shoes and food after we finished with them.”
“He’d never agree to that,” Lafayette replied heatedly. “That would be acting as your Cromwell. It is against everything he has stood for, that he has fought for.”
“Such issues of political morality are all well and good,” Justin replied, voice rising. “All I want is some respect. Congress was more than happy to urge us to fight two years ago, but I’ve seen precious few of their faces when we was at Long Island, Trenton, and Morristown. I saw neither hide nor hair of them as we bled at Brandywine when they were packing up and running away, while urging us to continue to fight.”
“The Revolution is not about Congress,” Sergeant Harris interjected. “It is about us.”
“Well, when it comes to us, I’d start with a decent pair of boots and a full stomach, and the ten dollars a month promised me, and not in their damn scrip but in hard silver.”
“So why in hell don’t you just leave? I told you to go whenever you want, and that stands true for all of you,” Harris snapped.
“Damn you, James Harris. If you weren’t wearing them stripes I’d thrash you for that insult,” Justin retorted.
“I’ll take my jacket off at any time you wish, Justin Putnam. I can lick the whole lot of you but won’t raise a finger if you are running away. But by the great God Jehovah, I’ll not listen to mutiny.”
“I’m as good a soldier as you are,” Justin replied heatedly. “All I am saying is I’ll fight to the end, but damn it, at least give us shoes and meat so we can fight. As it stands right now the damn British and their Hessian scum can all but bayonet us in our sleep like babes in the crib. Damn it, have we forgotten Vincent already? Did he deserve to die like that after all that he did?”
Peter lowered his head.
Vincent Upshaw had been his age. A veteran of every battle since Boston, he had been wounded at Princeton, some said because he stopped a bullet that would have hit the general. Offered a discharge because of his crippled arm, he had stayed in the ranks. He had died of the flux two weeks ago, crying and calling for his mother while Harris and his childhood friend Justin held him.
“Congress killed him as certainly as any British bullet would have,” Justin cried. “Some decent food, a hospital bed, some blue mass to plug up his guts and he’d still be with us. The politicians killed him and I won’t forget nor forgive that.”
Justin’s voice was harsh in an attempt to hide the emotion he felt for the death of someone all knew had been his closest friend.
“The British killed him. This damn war killed him,” Peter interjected. “The same as any bullet.”
“Says you.”
“Yes, says me, and damn it I have a right to say it,” Peter replied. “I lost my friend too…”
The two stared at each other and there was a moment of uncomfortable silence.
“Damn all wars. Damn all kings and politicians that start them,” someone whispered, and there was a chorus of agreements, breaking the tension, Justin at last nodding an acknowledgment to Peter.
“You saw who was out there watching as those men marched off?” Justin said coldly.
“Who?” Peter asked.
“Wilkinson.”
A mutter ran through the circle of men.
“He’s all right,” Peter offered. “Remember he marched with us at Trenton.”
“And he’s back with Gates,” Justin retorted. “What happened out there, Gates and Congress will have a full report as fast as he can ride to York.”
“They’d have known anyhow,” Harris sighed.
“And then what?” Justin interjected, tossing his greasy empty tin plate on the barn floor in the middle of the group. “Another arrow in the quiver for the damn War Board, I tell you. They’ll blame it all on the general.”
As he spoke, he nodded at the barn door, open toward the headquarters house.
Peter turned away from Justin, fixing Lafayette with his gaze.
“Will they, sir?”
Lafayette said nothing, as if unable to reply.
“And I swear this in front of all of you,” Justin continued, his gaze now fixed on Lafayette as well. “They bring that bastard Gates up here and I’ll march all right, straight on York with a fixed bayonet, and I’ll spit on any man who does not do likewise.”
No one spoke, not even Harris, who put his own plate down and just stared off.
“I am sorry to have stirred such thoughts,” Lafayette offered.
“No apology needed, sir,” Harris replied.
“And yet you will all stay?” Lafayette asked.
“You heard what I said,” Justin replied, anger still evident. “At least as long as he is in that headquarters building and not that damn Gates.”
As he spoke, he pointed straight at the Hewes house. The men gazed at him but none now spoke, some looked warily at Lafayette, knowing the punishment Justin could face for having so openly expressed his opinion.
“My words and questions are ill chosen,” Lafayette said, face reddening. “I know you will stay. It is just I am struck to the heart by your courage.”
He seemed to fumble.
“My English, I am still learning. I meant no insult.”
“None taken, sir,” Harris replied quickly.
“I can offer no words of promise,” he continued. “I would insult you if I did. I can only offer the wish that my countrymen will soon be at our sides with the supplies that your general has asked for. I cannot promise, other than to say that I have added my own words as well back to those in France who can help. But regardless if France does or does not, I too shall stay to the end. And I am convinced that regardless of outside help, that end will be victory as long as our General Washington has comrades such as you by his side.”
“We thank you, sir,” Harris offered.
“No, it is I who thank you.”
He stood up, making a gesture for the rest of them to remain seated. “I apologize if I have interrupted the pleasures of your repast,” he said with a smile and a feeble attempt at humor.
Bowing slightly, he left the barn.
“Good lad, that Frenchie,” someone said, and there was a chorus of agreement.
“I still think we should go and hang Congress,” Justin grumbled. “And if Gates sticks his nose in here, well, I think we all know how we feel.”
“Ah, shut up,” Harris replied. “Work detail this afternoon. We’re to start building some quarters and a shed behind the headquarters for staff and as a cookhouse and dining area.”
“With what?” Justin asked. “Our bare hands?”
“If need be, damn it!”
“All right, Sergeant,” Justin sighed. “A cookhouse, you say. Now, that sounds promising at least.”
Justin pointed to his tin plate in the center of the group.
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 15