Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  Though Rush did indeed fear the Caesarism that many whispered was the ultimate goal of Washington and those fanatical followers around him, such as Greene, Lord Stirling, and Wayne, he wondered now if he was indeed betting on the right horse. Disgusted as he was by the horrors he had witnessed on the battlefields and in the hospitals where he worked side by side with British surgeons, the flood of correspondence that had come in from General Washington and his supporters had caught him and the other members of Congress off guard.

  He had spent the last few days examining the records of Mifflin, one of Gates’s cronies, and his tenure as quartermaster. Tens of thousands of dollars had disappeared, the loss blamed on paperwork between state Commissary Departments and the Continental government. The arbitrary prices fixed by the different entities, often in conflict, were a source of endless confusion, and the losers were the armies, which were starving. That and the insistence that payment for supplies would be made in Continental scrip had played straight into British hands. What fool would accept five pounds Continental for a full-grown sow when a British purchasing agent would pay half a crown sterling—and a full crown if the animal weighed three hundred pounds or more?

  Page after page of such quotas and arbitrary prices for everything, from chickens and pigs to the paper and ink on which his own documents were written, had been created by Mifflin. And around it the taint that was buried in all the mountains of paperwork. There were the inflated charges for transport, for wagons to be commissioned by Mifflin with per diem charges that smelled of kickbacks to contractors for supplies, mules, and wagons.

  No wonder the entire system had collapsed and even patriot families hid their stock away at the approach of Continental purchasing agents. And in the richest farmland of all the thirteen states, the realm west of Philadelphia out to Lancaster and north to Reading, land rich enough to support a hundred thousand men in the field for an entire winter, barely a sow or head of cattle could now be found.

  He had thrown in with Gates and his side. He could not shake his truly Republican fear of Washington’s proposed solution: long-term enlistments of three years or the duration of the war, along with payment to be forwarded to him in hard cash for troops and their supplies. It was anathema to any true patriot, he reasoned. The notion of men of three years’ enlistment did indeed smack of the ancient Romans or the professional armies of Europe, which they now fought against.

  The dream had always been that a yeomanry of free landholders, such as in the days of Rome before the Carthaginian wars, would be the backbone of this fight. History taught him that when Rome, under the so-called Marian reforms, had gone to a professional fighting force, Caesar and Augustus waited in the wings, to bend such forces to their personal ambitions.

  And yet Washington, for so many the embodiment of all the ideals of a Cincinnatus, now argued the loudest for three years’ enlistments, for a professional, well-trained army of the Continental Line, as he called it. Washington argued that a professional army that could stand volley to volley against Howe’s professionals was their only way to victory.

  Rush had thrown in with Gates because of his belief that this should never be the case. It had been the undoing of liberty in the English Civil War of the 1640s. Cromwell had insisted upon training what he called his “New Model Army,” a professional force of long enlistments, the men drilled with ruthless proficiency, able at last to stand against the Royalists, and indeed they had won their war. But less than three years later, he had unleashed them against the very Parliament they were sworn to defend, putting their loyalty, as did Caesar’s legions, to their general rather than to the cause to which they had first pledged themselves.

  England then lived under a harsh dictatorship for more than a decade.

  A Washington dictatorship? He knew that both Samuel and John Adams, though not vocal, had whispered concerns about such a possibility. Others had as well.

  But this alternative? Gates?

  He looked at the man closely. Gates would understand that the base of his power was in the support of Congress, which Washington by his own correspondence and that of his fanatical followers was all but openly willing to challenge, with blame for the debacle unfolding at Valley Forge.

  Gates called for an army of militias—if need be, to disband the pathetic scarecrows encamped at Valley Forge. Send them all home to resupply, to nourish themselves in their own farms and villages. To put in their spring plantings—their families to sew new uniforms and fill their haversacks with rations—and then sally forth in the tens of thousands to drive out the invaders.

  What good was enduring the nightmare of trying to keep the small band at Valley Forge alive over the next four months?

  Send them home, except for a small, elite guard. Let them feed themselves off their own farms rather than the bankrupt public weal, and let them return in the spring.

  And yet, as he looked at the man he had allied with, he wondered yet again if he had chosen the right path. His heart, so torn by the nightmares he had witnessed in the fall, said that he had made the right choice. His soul told him something different: that this war entered into a realm few had dreamed of in their worst nightmares of but a year and a half past.

  How could he ever imagine that his own father-in-law, a signer of the Declaration, would be turncoat? That his wife, back in Philadelphia, would play upon that change as a means of negotiating protection of their own home, which at this very moment was filled with British officers. Fellow surgeons, to be sure—and, as such, they would extend to him a professional courtesy of protecting his property—but still he felt a deep twinge of self-loathing for having entered into such arrangements to protect his own.

  He looked down at the stack of paperwork spread out on the table between him and Gates.

  “It is obvious,” Gates announced, his voice pitched loud enough so that others in the tavern could hear, “that our beloved General Washington has dismissed Major General Conway without the respect due to a man appointed by this Congress and approved by the Board of War, and I ask you, sir, what your intentions are in regard to this.”

  Rush leaned forward, feeling an inner rage building.

  “Do not pressure me,” he whispered softly. “You know you have my support; let us not make a public show of denouncing a man who served as he was asked to by the Continental Congress.”

  Gates swallowed hard and held his hands up in entreaty.

  “I meant no such disrespect for General Washington,” he offered smoothly.

  “Then let us keep it that way, sir.”

  Others in the tavern had fallen silent, watching the two.

  “Still, what we have learned of his secret correspondence with Laurens, the correspondence of that French upstart and his implied threats, and even the letters of Laurens’s son, is that they are an attack on my character, sir.”

  “Did you expect less? Did you expect to attack Washington without some sort of response?” Rush asked.

  “He is the commanding general. He should be above such low and base actions against my character and show all proper respect to his superior as director of the Board of War.”

  “Attack and expect to be attacked in turn, sir,” Rush replied wearily, taking the decanter Gates had signed for and pouring himself another drink. “As to being his superior because of the Board of War, may I remind you that Congress has yet to rescind the authorization given to him as supreme commander of all forces now in the field of action.”

  “This, sir,” Gates replied, “is a battle for the soul of this Republic, the authority of the Republic and the support of the Congress which I have come here, fresh from the battlefield of Saratoga, to defend with my life, sir.”

  “Yes, of course, I am certain of that,” Rush replied coldly, as he drained his glass.

  Gates fell silent, turning his attention back to the letters directed to him and to the fragments of reports of letters sent by others, including Washington, to Laurens and other members of Congress, spott
ed by agents of his on the desks of those men, with notes jotted down as to what they had seen.

  Nothing was said for several minutes as the two sifted through the various documents.

  Rush paused, picking up one of them and scanning it.

  “Have you ever heard of a Baron von Steuben?” he finally asked.

  “Who?”

  “Some German. Claims to be a general who served under Frederick. He landed in Portsmouth last month with letters of introduction from Franklin and Deane.”

  Rush scanned the note.

  “Hard to read, but states here that even now he is on his way to report to us in York.”

  “Another damn foreigner like Lafayette and Lee.”

  “Or Conway, for that matter,” Rush replied dismissively.

  Gates said nothing.

  He put on his spectacles, and, holding the letter up to the candle that illuminated their table, he looked at it closely.

  “States here he is some sort of drillmaster in the Prussian method of war. Served in the Seven Years’ War, personally decorated by Frederick, and then served in the czarina’s army against the Turks. Lieutenant general and a baron now, no less. Offering services without demand of rank or pay.”

  “That’s a change,” Gates sniffed. “No rank or pay.”

  Rush looked at him, making no comment about Conway and others demanding rank and pay before they were barely off the boat.

  “He sounds interesting,” Rush announced, tossing the letter back on the table between them.

  Chapter Six

  Near Worcester, Massachusetts

  January 14, 1778

  Baron Friedrich Wilhelm Ludolf Gerhard Augustin von Steuben reined in his mount and looked at his thoroughly miserable companions, and the equally miserable countryside, as dusk settled upon them.

  The day had started with a freezing rain and was now getting worse, with sleet, snow, and a bitter-cold wind out of the northeast. At least it was at their backs as they rode out of Boston, where he had lingered since his arrival in America a month ago.

  Recruited by Franklin and Deane, he had tried to wrap his brain around English on the journey over through the stormy and nauseating Atlantic, but so far he had gained only a smattering of polite platitudes. Nevertheless, he had won over the former president of Congress, John Hancock, and the radical revolutionary Sam Adams, who had fired off letters to Congress announcing his arrival. They had urged Congress to take advantage of the vast skills of this well-respected professional, fresh from Europe, a man who, according to all documentation, had been a general with both Frederick of Prussia and Catherine of Russia.

  But what he now confronted on this, his first day on the long journey to York, Pennsylvania, and a meeting with Congress, seemed to presage a bad start to his career with this strange new army on the far side of the world.

  The weather had turned miserable, the storm driving them along as he and his companions took the post road out of Boston, heading west. His traveling companions for the long journey to meet with Congress were an amusing mix, a small band of young Frenchmen. Even his secretary and aide was French, a pleasant enough lad, Pierre Du Ponceau, 17. He was a remarkable student of language in spite of his youth—he could at least converse in German and had already Anglicized or Germanized his name to Peter.

  Several other young men rode with him, seeking office in the American Army, a couple of servants, and, most important to his morale, his ever-present and loyal Azor, a dog of doubtful pedigree but formidable powers of intimidation, larger than any mastiff or St. Bernard; if he felt his master threatened in any way, he stood by his side with teeth bared. It was something Friedrich found highly amusing, since at heart the big fool was a coward, and if the bluff didn’t work, his dog would then quickly hide behind his human protector, leaving a wet trail in retreat.

  “I think there is a tavern ahead,” Peter announced. Throughout the day, he had dashed ahead in his youthful exuberance to explore and do reconnaissance, taking to heart John Hancock’s warning, at their departure, to move with caution once out into the countryside, since bands of Loyalists were known to waylay and rob anyone they thought was a patriot. Once out of Boston, Peter and his companions had even expressed concern that perhaps Indians might be lurking, and Friedrich had teased that in such a case, they must forgo wearing a powdered wig in order to give their foes better access to scalps—a joke at which all had paled.

  Inwardly von Steuben reveled in this new adventure. He had seen service for most of the Seven Years’ War, been wounded and personally decorated by Frederick at Minden. When captured by the Russians, he had forged new friendships while being held prisoner in St. Petersburg, and was given parole that allowed him to visit the city during the day. He had been the first to inform his king that, with the death of the virulently anti-German Czarina Elizabeth and the ascent to the throne of Peter III, a slavish devotee of Frederick, the new czar would pull Russia out of the war. By that stage, Russia was on the verge of destroying Prussia. For at least a little while he had indeed enjoyed the position of a “Greek messenger” who had borne good news. And for a few years that had gained him a position on the Prussian general staff.

  But postwar employment was difficult to hold, and eventually he offered his sword to Russia, under Catherine—after she had, according to rumor, murdered her husband, the late Peter III. He had fought against the Turks but then yet again found himself unemployed. He lacked the subservience needed for survival in the higher echelons of the armies and courts of Europe, particularly when there were no new wars to be fought.

  This new adventure most definitely fit his taste, though there was a slight irony in that he was off to fight against the British, trusted allies during the Seven Years War; that he was riding with a gaggle of young French nobles, whose fathers he had fought against; and that if he were ever to go into action, he might very well face what the Americans called Hessians—actually men from half a dozen minor principalities, including his native province, with undoubtedly more than a few friends and comrades of old in their ranks.

  Still, there was something about this adventure, this war, that caught him and held his attention. Gone here was the rigid system of court favors and lineage—though in Frederick’s army, at least in time of war, an officer’s rise was mainly through merit…as long as he had not made too many enemies on the way up.

  From what he had studied of this war, the fact that the Americans had even survived for over two years against the hammer blows of the English, whose troops were second only to those of the Prussians on the battlefield, said something of their spirit. His month in Boston had been a time well spent in educating himself about this new cause and the new country that was growing from its passions.

  The depressing side was that, as with all causes, this Revolution was torn by faction. As a survivor of the courts at Magdeburg, Berlin, St. Petersburg, and elsewhere, he knew how to survive. Until he had a firm foothold on the ground, he should listen, nod much, and say little in reply.

  What he had gathered was that this Revolution was little better than thirteen independent states, gathered together for the moment. Like any alliance, it was prone to flying apart if not guided by a firm hand. It was torn by dissent: some, like Sam Adams, the firebrand, arguing that the war should be fought with short-term militias—that they had done well enough at Bunker Hill and in besieging Boston, and that Washington, besides being a Southerner, was bent on being the next Cromwell.

  Many praised Gates as the man of the hour, the glorious victor of Saratoga, and both Adams and Hancock had written letters of introduction to that same general, couriered ahead to York.

  Others whispered that Washington would still prove to be their guide to victory.

  Twenty years of survival in the courts of Europe had taught him much. Coming to something of an understanding of the rather confusing chain of command for this nation and army, he had dictated three brief letters of introduction, to the current president of Congress,
to General Gates as head of the Board of War, and to General George Washington. He had informed each, in turn, that as a matter of courtesy he was also in communication with the other two, and that first and foremost his goal was to offer his services to the cause they all shared and to the victory they all desired.

  Hancock advised him to first report to Congress at York, and this he would do. Studying the maps, he could see that this journey of several weeks would take him within a few miles of where Washington was encamped. Protocol, he sensed, demanded he first go to Congress without paying proper respects to the general in the field. He sensed it was a waste of valuable time. But if he was to prove himself here, after years of languid inactivity, a few more weeks one way or the other should not matter.

  Following Peter’s lead, he pressed along the muddy road toward where the excitable young Frenchman said a tavern awaited. If this was considered a primary postal road in this country, he could well understand why no army here would venture forth on a winter campaign. Louis of France and all the kings of Prussia for generations had always placed an emphasis on building roads that were properly engineered and designed for drainage. Primary roads crossing rivers were to be spanned with stone bridges, and there were to be proper cantonments at regular distances to house troops and depots ready with food and supplies. This American wilderness was as bad as Russia, an absolutely appalling situation not even a day’s ride out from one of their most important trading cities.

  He spotted the tavern sign bucking back and forth in the wind. It was not a very promising looking place, shutters pulled tight, no light to be seen as darkness descended, a lone outpost on this miserable road with only a few outbuildings and a barn to be seen surrounding it.

  They rode up to the door, dismounting, Peter leading the way. Peter tried the latch. The door was locked and he pounded on it.