“Anyone for a louse race?” he asked.
Lafayette stood on the other side of the barn door, listening.
“Learn anything?”
It was Major Tilghman.
“You heard it, I assume.”
Tilghman nodded, putting his hand on Lafayette’s shoulder, guiding him away from the barn and the house and out into the field beyond.
“Most of it was soldier talk, soldier grumbling,” Tilghman said. “The general’s always said that as long as you can hear them grumbling there is hope. It is when they fall silent that it is time to worry.”
Lafayette had heard the same words. And yet how strange was this world. In the armies of France, in the armies of any other nation, if such grumbling were overheard by an officer, a flogging or caning was certain, or a hanging in the Czarist and Prussian armies. How different indeed this America was. It had shocked him to the core the first time he encountered it. Even now, what the one private had said, not once but several times, about marching on York could be grounds for having a man lashed to death or hanged. The soldier had said it in his presence, and he wondered if it was an act of defiance or an echo of the disrespect more than a few first showed him when he joined this army. Or was it an echo of a new kind of army, an army of men fighting for their freedom, including their right to speak their minds as they saw fit?
Washington assured him that earning respect would come hard for someone who was as young as he was and who was French as well. Until recently, his France had been the traditional foe of all who lived here. He could try to force it by claiming a title, or by actions. The point of the advice was obvious, to earn respect by action, which he felt he had done. Even now, as he walked, the pain from the wound at Brandywine still troubled him, a reminder of what he was willing to do for that respect.
“I was stunned, though, by such open talk of mutiny,” Lafayette finally offered. At least with Tilghman, a well-educated man, he could fall back into French, which was far easier.
“You handled yourself well, sir,” Tilghman replied. “Instinct would have been to order the man arrested, which you could have done. So why didn’t you?”
Lafayette lowered his head, not sure how to reply.
“Did you agree with him? At least as far as Gates is concerned?”
“If they remove our general and place General Gates in command, I shall resign and return to France,” Lafayette said coldly.
“Ah, a fine point there,” Tilghman replied. “A point of honor which we as officers have, but the enlisted man does not.”
“And that is?”
“An officer may, without disgrace, resign his commission in protest at nearly any time, except when directly in the face of the enemy, when it is obvious that such a resignation is an act of cowardice.”
Lafayette bristled slightly.
“No, sir,” Tilghman offered, hand extended. “Perhaps my French is imperfect as your English can still be at times.”
Lafayette relaxed a bit and smiled, the two falling into the American speaking English, the young nobleman French.
“The code of a gentleman and officer embraces you and me. We can resign in protest and be thought none the worse for it, something surely our general will do if in any way Gates is placed in direct command, either of this army in the field or in some new position he and his cabal can manufacture with Congress. This Board of War is damn near on that mark already.
“We can resign, but those men in there,” and he nodded back to the barn, “what recourse do they have? Stand and endure it? Or go home…as a deserter and lose all honor, in fact face a flogging or hanging if taken in the act.”
Tilghman sighed and shook his head. “God pity the common man. And that, sir, is what I believe this Revolution to be about. The right of the common man, even in uniform, to stand up and say no when a moral question strikes directly to his heart. It was Private Putnam, I believe, who spoke that way just now.”
“I was not sure of his name.”
“And you will not report him?”
“Of course not.”
Tilghman nodded. “Good, thank you, sir.”
“Why such concern?”
“He is a good soldier. He was part of the original regiment the general mobilized back in ’75. His younger brother died during that winter in Boston. My God, the Virginians died by the score from the cold then. You heard him speak of his closest friend, a comrade engaged to his sister. He has stood the test. He’d be a sergeant, even an officer, if not for his damn loud mouth, but the men see him as their voice, even when they themselves lack the stomach to say anything themselves.”
“So you agree with him?”
Tilghman smiled.
“Do you?”
“It is not my place to say.”
“Come now, my dear Marquis, it is you and I, alone in this field. I swear to you my solemn oath that it goes no further. Do you agree with him?”
Lafayette looked at him, features grim.
“I already told you. If Gates comes, I resign.”
“Even if Washington urged you to stay on?”
“The general is a gentleman and, yes, he would urge us all to do so. But sir, my oath of loyalty above all else is to him and always shall be. I will not stand for such a base betrayal of the one man who you and I know is the last remaining hope of this cause.”
“Even though nearly all battles fought, except for Trenton and Princeton, have been defeats, perhaps even better defined as routs and debacles.”
“And if our general had what he desired? Proper supplies for his men, shoes, dry uniforms, ammunition, and an army of long-standing enlistments, men of three years and not just six months or three months, there is no power that could stop him. I am sick of the fools that plot against him.”
“As am I,” Tilghman replied, shaking his head.
“We both see where this is going to lead,” Lafayette continued. “You saw Wilkinson as did I, observing this morning’s tragic drama. He is a good man in his own way, but he has fallen back into Gates’s pocket. Even now he is riding at the gallop to York with the report that a quarter of the army disbanded this day. And does our general now just sit back and wait for the axe to fall?”
Tilghman smiled.
“Do not consider General Washington to have such naïveté. He is a general on the battlefield, to be certain, and under that quiet demeanor, he is as adept a fighter as any politician or lawyer in Congress.”
Lafayette nodded, saying nothing. It would be nice to believe, but he wondered just how long a man such as Washington would survive in the court intrigues of Versailles.
“A dispatch rider is preparing even now, sir,” Tilghman continued. “Letters of protest have already been written by Washington and signed, written before this morning’s humiliation. They are addressed to those members of Congress he still feels he can trust. Sir, I approach you now with the request that you do the same. That when the rider departs, you send letters to all those whom you feel you can approach in Congress who will listen to your side of this issue.”
“And you wish me to say?”
“In part what you said just now to me, but not as forcefully, of course,” Tilghman smiled. “For, after all, before this all started, I was once a lawyer, though of the two I prefer the rank of an honorable officer, but believe me, I know how to fight as a lawyer, an art which at times in this war is just as important as my sword.
“The general is prepared and is acting. Major Laurens on our staff, son of the current president of Congress, is firmly on our side and has written nearly daily to his father. Generals Greene and Wayne have written to those whom they trust, making it clear that if Gates comes, they go. I am writing to my contacts. Your voice, sir, would be invaluable as well.
“Dare I suggest, sir, that if the implication is clear that you speak with knowledge of the mood of the French, that General Washington is the hero of the French Court in spite of the temporary setbacks before Philadelphia, and that you per
sonally, sir, will seek withdrawal of support if His Excellency is demoted or forced out of command, it will play well for our side.”
Lafayette took it in. Tilghman was asking him to join a conspiracy, and he smiled. He would die without hesitation for his general, who had become like a father for him, the father he had never really known. Little did Tilghman know that such letters had already been sent to France and, if not intercepted by the British blockade, should be at the court in a few more weeks. Well, at least it was out in the open now.
“Sadly, Benjamin Rush is out,” Tilghman sighed. “Too bad, for I liked the man. A year ago, before Trenton, his efforts were crucial, and all know that, without him, Paine’s articles never would have been published. I do not blame the man too much. He is, after all, a physician first, not a politician, and the sights he witnessed these last six months would shake the faith of any man whose heart is one of compassion, as his surely is. He is neither a military man nor a man of politics, and I pray that a day shall come when he shall awaken and return to our fold.
“John Adams is a stout, perhaps mule-headed New Englander. Gifted when it comes to the nuances of creating a government, but perhaps too caught up in the running of it. I heard last that he is now a member of twenty committees, and such a gadfly to some that they are shipping him off to your country to serve there with Franklin and thus get him out of the way. God save them both when they have to work together.”
He chuckled at the thought of it.
“Hancock has gone home. Jefferson has gone home. Only a few of the original signers, even fewer of those who first nominated and placed our general in command, are still with Congress in York. What we have there, except for Laurens and a few others, are the second-raters. The type that slip in after the giants who created this Revolution have, for the moment, fallen by the wayside with exhaustion or disillusionment, or been seduced to abandon the cause or look to their own interests, or are filled with disgust for the entire project.
“Happy is the lot of a soldier who can clearly see the face of an enemy and, if afterwards Christian compassion prevails, offer to bandage his wounds and send him on his way.
“How I hate the machinations that are behind every war.”
“Read Tacitus, Cicero, even that accursed Machiavelli,” Lafayette replied. “Nothing changes in that regard.”
“So you are with us, of course?” Tilghman asked.
“With what?”
“Our own dispatch rider to York leaves in the afternoon. Relays have been set up. With luck he should arrive ahead of Wilkinson or at least concurrent with him. One can assume that Conway is already back there, spreading his rumors. We must counter, and counter hard, if in a fortnight we are still to have our general, and with him an army, and with them a Revolution. If not, I would actually say defeat, at best, at worst a mutiny that could plunge all of us into a bloodbath.”
“And as we plot this way,” Lafayette asked, “what of those men back there? Will they eat tomorrow? Are there more tools for shelters to be built? What if the British should decide to sally forth from Philadelphia and march here tonight under the cover of the storm which seems to be approaching?”
Tilghman shrugged his shoulders sadly.
“The last first. Them marching on us? I doubt it. Morgan, Wayne, and their scouts, though roughed up these last few days, still have spies moving in and out of the city. There are no indications of a sally. They are too busy gorging, wenching, and now even preparing pageants and plays to entertain themselves, laughing that all they need do now is sit back and let us starve. Their spies are, without doubt, on to us as well, and are reporting with derisive humor our dire predicament. Why bother to fight us and shed more blood, and endure the discomfort of the field, when nature itself will deal with us? A week of blizzard and freeze or, worse yet, a week of icy rain will finish us once and for all. That is how precarious our hold now is.”
“Food?” Lafayette asked.
Tilghman smiled.
“A herd of swine are being driven down from Reading—if the damn things don’t run off, they should arrive here tomorrow afternoon. A hundred head, at least, enough meat for a few more days. Cattle coming in and, I heard, a dozen wagonloads of ground corn from the Reading area as well.”
He ran the numbers in his head. A dozen wagons, a pound of corn or bread per man. No, a pound and a quarter or more, given the number that marched off this morning.
Crisis averted for a few more days at least.
How pathetic that we are down to counting days, Lafayette mused. Back home, the king’s depots stored enough rations to keep an army of a hundred thousand in the field for at least a year, if need be, with proper roads and canals laid out to bring up more, from the border of the Netherlands clear down to the coastal plains facing Italy.
“Shall we go write our letters?” Tilghman asked, producing his pocket watch and flipping it open to observe the time. “The dispatch rider awaits, the general’s reports are already signed, and I am certain a few letters from you would be heaven-sent at this point, my friend.”
Lafayette smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.
York, Pennsylvania
January 4, 1778
Fuming, General Gates looked through the stack of correspondence. The report by Wilkinson, describing the departure of over a quarter of Washington’s army, came as no surprise. His own agents had reported that probability to him long before the men paraded on the morning of the first of this New Year. Their reasons for not reenlisting were now laid out in his own report to the Board of War. Mismanagement on the field of battle, the utter failure of Washington to attend to the most fundamental needs of those whom he was duty-bound to provide for, the useless deaths from disease, starvation, and exposure—it was now all in his report.
And yet it was the reports in the other letters that had arrived that now caused his simmering rage.
Though the exact copy had not been revealed to him, apparently the president of Congress had received an entreaty from his own son, serving with Washington, denouncing the Board of War, blaming them for the failure of supplies, containing in that report the veiled hint that if command was changed the army would desert en masse. A report as well that the French upstart Lafayette was spreading rumors that he was considering resigning, returning to France, and there denouncing before the Court at Versailles the entire war effort if the general he was a toady for was removed.
Conway was not helping matters at all. Upon his return, he stormed around the tavern and the courthouse that now served as the hall for Congress, bitterly denouncing his treatment at the hands of Washington. He demanded a letter of authorization from Laurens, signed by all members of Congress, reaffirming his promotion to major general. Washington must respect him, and all his recommendations as to the reorganization of the army per his orders as inspector general must be adhered to as coming directly from Congress, under threat of court-martial if Washington did not instantly obey.
“So what are you going to do?”
He looked up from the stack of papers at Dr. Benjamin Rush.
“What do you mean?”
“Precisely what I asked. He is calling your bluff. This confrontation was bound to come sooner or later. He is calling for a letter of endorsement from President Laurens. He is calling for a reorganization of the system of supply. He is calling for an endorsement that if need be, he may commandeer supplies as needed, based on promissory notes issued by him but sent then directly to Congress, for which we shall be responsible. Surely that is an action which the state government of Pennsylvania will object to in the extreme.”
“That is outside his authority to do,” Gates sniffed.
“He is not taking this lying down,” Rush replied, and Gates wondered if there was almost a note of admiration in the doctor’s voice, even though the man had affirmed after yesterday’s meetings that he felt the commanding general’s time, at least for now, had passed.
“He has made no response whatsoever to
the letters of remonstration from Pennsylvania regarding regaining control of the west bank of the Schuylkill River. Nor will he send troops back into New Jersey. He declares that such matters of military necessity must rest with him and not with Congress. He has denounced your ally General Conway, openly saying that the power of promotion finally rests with him, though he will consider the advice and consent of Congress during this time of war.”
Rush gazed at Gates. “It is a direct challenge to your Board of War.”
“My Board of War?” Gates retorted. “You voted for it, so it is yours as well.”
“But you insisted upon being appointed head of that board, so the challenge is to you, sir.”
“Do you think he must be replaced?”
Rush hesitated, and then finally nodded.
“You know I supported him in his desperate move against Trenton last Christmas, and then in the march around the British flank at Princeton, and on to the winter camp established at Morristown. But a year of unrelenting defeats since then, the horrors I witnessed at Brandywine, the state of our prisoners, the manner in which the British are far better prepared to treat their sick and wounded while we lack in everything, has turned my soul, reluctant as it was, to this decision. I have placed my trust in you, sir, and you are being challenged. What shall you do?”
Gates leaned back in his chair, looking at a half-empty glass of Madeira, motioning to it. The innkeeper came over with a fresh decanter. Without any pretense of gentlemanly behavior, Gates marked off on a tally sheet the charge of four shillings sterling, a practice he openly engaged in after Congress had failed to pay him the weekly charges, offering Continentals rather than Crown or Dutch silver. He refilled his glass and drained it.
“I shall face him down. I must. Laurens knows that Congress is increasingly behind me. I won at Saratoga. I have ultimately won on every field I commanded.”
Rush said nothing for a moment. Gates had commanded on his own at Saratoga? If the other reports were to be believed, those written in the halting hand of Morgan, or the bitter denouncements of Arnold, still in convalescence from his nobly gained wounds in that fight, Gates had faced nothing short of mutiny from the other generals in the field. His fellow generals believed they had won Saratoga despite him, not because of him.
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 16