Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  A moment later it cracked open, a narrow, squinting face peering out.

  “We seek lodgings for the night,” Peter announced and gestured back to his half-dozen companions.

  The innkeeper gazed at him coolly, eyes darting, noticing the uniforms.

  “I’m filled up for the night. Ride on to Worcester.”

  “Sir, you see the weather. Night is falling. Surely you have room.”

  “Filled up, I tell you. Now ride on. Ten miles to Worcester.”

  Von Steuben, not understanding a word, stood with his back to the wind, and then wandered off a few steps to look around the side of the tavern. There was no sign of life, doors to the barn open, stalls empty.

  He turned back as Peter continued to argue.

  “What is wrong?” he asked Peter in German.

  “The innkeeper claims he has no rooms for the night.”

  “Force your way in, damn him.”

  Peter nodded, obviously a bit nervous, but followed orders, putting his shoulder to the door, pushing it open, he and the others stumbling in.

  Von Steuben, as befitting his rank in such matters, came last.

  A warm fire crackled in an oversize fieldstone fireplace, but the room was entirely empty except for what appeared to be the owner’s wife and a couple of servants, who stood nervously at the door leading from the tavern room back into the kitchen.

  “Filled up, I tell you.”

  “I see no one here,” Peter retorted.

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Sir, I see no one here.”

  “They’ve gone out hunting and said they’d be back. Now, get out!”

  Peter, stunned, could not reply, as the owner, backing around the long bar, produced a fowling piece. He didn’t aim it toward them, just laid it on the bar.

  “Now, James!” his wife exclaimed.

  “Rebecca, shut your mouth. These are nothing but a bunch of damn Frenchie dandies, and I’ll be damned if they stay in my place. I’m sick of all of them. Fought them in the last war and now they say they’re on our side against the king?”

  “What is this?” Friedrich asked of Peter.

  “He hates us French and I think he’s a Loyalist, sir,” Peter informed him in German.

  “What are you talking there?” James snapped.

  Von Steuben ignored him, turned, and walked out of the tavern. Peter and the others looked at him incredulously, several of the young men turning—ready to leave, retreat, and try to force their way on for several more hours through the storm.

  Reaching his horse, von Steuben pulled out his favorite weapon, an old Cossack horse pistol, a massive thing with a barrel nearly a foot long and close to .80-caliber. Loaded with a one-ounce round ball and a dozen buckshot on top, it was a most effective weapon. Several times it had saved his life. He didn’t bother to check the pan—chances were the powder was damp, and inwardly he knew he wouldn’t pull the trigger anyhow. It would be a poor start in this country if, on the first day of his journey to meet with Congress, he blew the head off of a surly innkeeper.

  Du Ponceau was in the doorway, assuming their leader had conceded. He was surprised to see him returning, and then grinned as he saw this German storm back in, right hand concealed under his cape. Von Steuben walked briskly up to the innkeeper, who stood there with a defiant smirk.

  An instant later the pistol was out, cocked and pointed straight at his forehead. Azor was by his side, head high enough that he could see over the edge of the bar, hair on his back bristled, teeth bared in a throaty growl.

  The man backed up, gaze shifting from the gun aimed at him to Azor, and back to the gun. He nearly stumbled over a chair as he tried to retreat toward the doorway into the kitchen, where his wife stood screaming.

  “Pierre, translate!” von Steuben roared. “Curse for me, in English, at them. Then tell this man we are officers of their Continental army.”

  Du Ponceau began to speak hurriedly.

  “Tell him we are tired, hungry, our horses spent. And say that I will send him straight to hell minus his head if he utters another word against our noble French allies.”

  Du Ponceau looked over at him with a sidelong glance and grinned.

  “Thank you, sir, for that sentiment. May I curse at him some more as well?”

  “Yes, damn him!”

  Azor, sensing that the argument was going their way and that his master’s opponent was absolutely terrified, stepped toward the cowering man, growling.

  Von Steuben snapped a command and Azor stopped in place. Von Steuben almost smiled; he wondered what would happen if he ever did order his giant dog to attack.

  “Some more curses, Peter, and then say that we are staying and add that we will pay him in silver.”

  Even before Peter finished translating, the innkeeper was nodding, hands held high. One of the young French officers, with a grin, reached over to the bar to take the fowling piece.

  “Vogel, my purse,” von Steuben announced.

  His servant gingerly reached around to von Steuben’s uniform pocket and drew out a small leather pouch.

  “Ask this man what are the rates for all six of us, dinner, beds free of vermin, breakfast, and our horses properly tended to.”

  “Our bedding is free of vermin, I can assure you,” Rebecca interjected nervously, as Peter translated, obviously insulted by the implication, but eyes now on the purse.

  “No Continental money,” James retorted. “You are not in a position to argue,” von Steuben roared, and Azor resumed growling.

  “Fifteen dollars,” he hesitated, “per man. Five dollars extra for each horse.”

  “My dog, meat and bones for free,” von Steuben replied.

  James nodded, not daring to argue, as if Azor might understand the negotiations and react if board was denied.

  “Vogel, one silver thaler,” von Steuben snapped. “And that is for all of us.”

  The heavy coin was tossed onto the bar. James looked down, snatched it up, and held it to the light of a smoking lantern.

  “It’s real silver,” he announced, looking over at his wife.

  The glint of avarice was obvious as James forced a smile.

  “I thought you were the usual wandering thieves, begging your pardon, sir,” he announced, all but groveling even as he clutched the silver coin. “We ain’t seen real money in six months’ time, and supplies round here is scarce. I meant no insult, believe me. It’s just that I can’t take lodgers in, get paid in Continentals, and then try and buy new vittles. That paper money Massachusetts prints up is absurdity, sir. Absurdity.”

  He was prattling, and von Steuben turned away as if bored.

  “Vogel, pay him as well for one of those bottles of brandy behind him.” After a brief but one-sided negotiation, they settled on an English shilling and sixpence. The bottle and glasses were hurriedly produced, Vogel sweeping them up and taking them over to a table by the crackling fire.

  Von Steuben uncocked his pistol, turned and then made a formal nod to the landlady.

  “Peter, inform her I meant no disrespect and that I would appreciate her seeing to a proper dinner as soon as possible.”

  She smiled, curtsied, and hurried into the kitchen, shouting orders to the servants, while Vogel went outside to lead their horses into the barn, the innkeeper even offering to help.

  Von Steuben settled into a chair by the fire, casting off his thoroughly waterlogged cape and hat and stretching out his short, stubby legs. He gladly accepted a glass poured by Peter and smiled at the admiring glances of the young men. Azor came over, wagging his tail. Von Steuben affectionately patted his friend and pointed toward the floor, and the wet, foul-smelling dog settled down and stretched out before the fireplace with a contented sigh.

  “That is how we negotiate in Prussian,” he said with a grin, and they held their glasses up, standing, offering him and King Frederick a toast.

  He stood when that name was announced, even though he would never voice, o
ver here, the dissatisfaction he felt over how he had been treated after so many years of loyal service. As to his claimed rank of general…well, he had served on the General Staff, so that was equivalent, and he held fast to that, along with his claim to the nobility as a baron, though enemies countered that it was a title that had been falsely cooked up by his father.

  Regardless, America was a new start and he would make the most of it.

  The bottle was soon drained. The innkeeper was still out in the barn tending to the horses, so von Steuben went around the bar on his own, took down another bottle of brandy, and tossed another shilling on the table. He did not need to check what was left in his purse. Several more encounters such as this one would leave him penniless, except for a wad of Continental currency given to him by Hancock, but the show of bravado at the start of their long journey was the stuff that created respect and camaraderie for the long journey ahead. As a young officer, it was what his father and the army had taught him well. A good officer looked out first for his horses and then for his men, starting with the lowest private, then sergeants, and finally junior officers. In garrison, an officer knew when to buy a round for fellow officers even if it took his last pfennig, when to give a thaler to a sergeant to buy beer for the enlisted men if they had performed well on parade. Now, with these Frenchmen as his companions for a journey that would take weeks, his act of bravado would play well, and word of it spread. He could only pray that, in the future, they would pass through some towns where citizens would be eager to fete them at their own expense rather than his.

  He uncorked the second bottle, filled the glasses of the others, and held his up.

  He knew there was a political game that they were heading into, the waters murky, currents unclear, personalities maneuvering, factions forming and reforming. “To victory,” he announced, and the others came to their feet, draining their glasses and grinning with delight as the first course, a venison pie, steaming hot, was carried out from the kitchen. Rebecca frowned at the second bottle but smiled graciously when she saw the shilling already on the table.

  By the end of the evening, Steuben had gone through a crown of his English money for brandy and a jug of a vile drink that Peter said was corn whiskey, but it was worth it. His traveling companions laughed with delight as Peter translated his tales of adventure in the last war against their fathers and while in Russia, fighting Turks, Cossacks, and other rebels. The bonds were formed; these men would be loyal to him as he would be loyal to them as they made their way toward whatever awaited them in York and beyond.

  Valley Forge

  January 8, 1778

  “Show General Wayne in,” Washington replied. Standing, he acknowledged Wayne’s salute. Once the door was closed, he came around from behind his desk, extending his hand, offering to help Wayne remove his snow-covered cape and hat. He motioned Wayne over to a chair by the fireplace and sat down in the opposite chair, Wayne extending his hands, rubbing them in front of the fire to take the chill out.

  A snowfall of nearly a foot had blanketed the valley over the last few days, flurries still coming down, at least freezing the ground again, making it easier for his men to pull logs out of the forest and drag them in to build cabins. Labor was progressing, but, after more than two weeks, two-thirds of his men were still living under tattered tents and in lean-tos.

  “I read your dispatch last night,” Washington said, motioning back to his desk.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but it had to be said. The force I took with me down to reinforce Morgan is gone, sir, totally gone, except for a few dozen men I left with Morgan’s command.

  “As I noted in the report, the men assigned to me from the other brigades were not the choice men you indicated was your desire, but instead a dumping off of troublemakers, village fools, men ready to desert, anyhow. By going with me, their desertions would not reflect on the muster rolls of their own regiments.”

  Washington extended his hand in a calming gesture.

  “Anthony, there is no need to explain yourself. I trust what you reported.”

  “Still, sir,” Anthony sighed. “Day after day, to see them, to see those damn…”

  He hesitated.

  “Sir, the same light infantry that attacked us at Paoli was there, and us not able to strike back. We’d try to position for at least some demonstration, some trap, even if just to sweep up a few wagons and their guards, but always they seemed forewarned. Word we got was that their General Grey let it be known that on whatever property his men were ambushed, the house would be put to the torch, but if we were betrayed, the owner’s goods would be respected and purchased at fair price. I regret to say that I must report that most of the farmsteads lining the Schuylkill near Philadelphia are now either Tory or at least cooperate in some way to protect themselves. We’ve lost the countryside in that region.

  “Some good souls secretly give our men food, a dry place to sleep if no British are across the river on patrol, but beg us to leave the area if even a rumor comes of another raid.”

  “Do you think there will be any more raids on the scale of what Howe did just before Christmas?”

  Anthony shook his head. “Why bother? At least that is what our spies are bringing back from Philadelphia. They’ve gathered in enough food to see them through to spring. Their shipping moves freely on the Delaware, and all of south Jersey is open to them if they should wish. The word is that they’ve settled in for a winter of gorging themselves, that most of the daughters of the merchants openly dally with the officers, and I will not say what the lower-class women are doing.”

  Washington said nothing. The men around him knew that talk of issues of a bawdy nature was not acceptable in his presence.

  “Sir, unless I am sorely mistaken, I think it shall be quiet until the spring thaws and dry roads are again ready to support an army on the march, with hay high enough to feed our horses and theirs.”

  Washington sighed at this report, stood, and went to the window, looking out across the frozen plain. A party of men trudged by out on the road, guiding several skin-and-bone horses dragging logs up the slope. Smoke drifted with the wind from the regimental cooking fires. A small convoy of food had come down from Reading the evening before, beef on the hoof, obviously not the choice stock, but still fresh meat.

  The real haul, though, was over two tons of freshly ground flour, at least it was purported to be so, though weevils were found in more than a few sacks that obviously had been sitting for months, if not years.

  He looked back at Anthony, who sat glumly by the fire. He knew the man expected a reprimand, perhaps even dismissal, for the utter failure of his mission to block the British light infantry at Darby, combined with his shattering defeat at Paoli three months before.

  “Care for a walk?” Washington offered.

  Wayne looked up at him in surprise.

  “Sir?”

  “I feel like a walk.”

  Wayne did not argue as he donned his wet, heavy woolen cape and hat, following his general out the door. The ground was frozen, with a goodly layer of snow upon it, providing a fair footing. Sergeant Harris, seeing his general come out, called for a squad of men to fall in as escort, Washington motioning for them to fall in at a discreet distance.

  It was good to be out in the fresh, bracing air, snow flurries drifting on the wind, the snowfall of the previous days covering over, at least temporarily, the filth and squalor of an encampment of nine thousand men, so ill prepared for this winter. All around him men were hard at work, dragging in logs, cutting notches to fit them into place on the cabins, splitting shingles from dead cedars dragged up from the riverbank, mixing muddy clay in kettles over low-simmering fires and slapping the clay between logs as chinking, carrying in bundles of deadfall to use as firewood. The full meals of the last few days had worked wonders. Though, of course, the constant dread was that the larder for the army never held more than a day or so in reserve. If no food came in by this evening, it would be half rations tomorrow
and no rations at all within three days.

  The smells of it all he found comforting. There was always that pleasant tang of firewood, especially from hickory, maple, chestnut, and ash. Fresh meat was roasting over fires, groups of hungry men gathered around, carefully watching for the moment when they could line up and then play out the ritual of their sergeants dividing up the precious rations.

  There were other scents as well, which as an old soldier he had long ago learned to block out: latrine pits poorly dug in the first muddy days and already overflowing, the scent of thousands of unwashed bodies. He heard distant cries from one of the hospital huts. Merciful God, it sounded like a surgery, as the victim begged and cried.

  The first case of typhus had been reported to him this morning by Bodo Otto, the new surgeon general of the army, replacing the still absent Benjamin Rush. He had immediately ordered a quarantine hospital to be established several miles away for those stricken with the contagions of typhus, measles, and smallpox. The cases of dysentery and pneumonia and general complaints could still be handled by the brigade hospitals. A hundred men, in this case truly choice men, had been sent off with Otto to construct the necessary shelters for the dangerously sick, and an appeal had been sent out to neighboring communities for any surgeon or woman of good moral character who would volunteer for the dangerous task of seeing to these suffering men.

  Duty required he must visit with the sick, a task to him far more painful than the prospect of any battle, and which he hoped to postpone for a few more days, until the buildings were completed and the sick and dying moved. The quarantine hospital, besides being good medical practice, as Bodo pointed out, was necessary as well to conceal from the rest of the troops just how many men were now falling victim to disease.

  Yet in spite of all the unrelenting suffering, there seemed to be a positive air about the camp this day. They had enjoyed a full midday meal, a pound per man. More tools had come in as well. The pace of labor was picking up for their shelters. Though only a third were completed, still hundreds more were at least four or five tiers high, enough for a majority of the men still out in the cold to pitch their tents and lean-tos within to get out of the worst of the wind. A few regiments even had enough energy to stage a snowball fight, arrayed in battlelines, pelting each other vigorously to the point that officers finally had to break it up after a few teeth and bones were broken in the general melee, a small barrel of rum going to the supposed victors, men of the New York Line who then graciously offered to share the few ounces per man with the supposed losers, not so experienced in such melees, from the tidewater of Virginia.