Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  Peggy drew her hands back, as if actually fearful.

  André looked over at Allen with a smile.

  “I often find you in this room, Lieutenant, perusing Dr. Franklin’s library. Would you care to venture what it is?”

  Allen, surprised by André’s offer, finally smiled.

  “It is a glass harmonica.”

  “A what?” Peggy asked.

  Allen motioned to the device and to where Peggy sat. She looked at André, who motioned for her to move. She shot a quick glance at Allen but then surrendered the bench.

  With Miss Shippen no longer sitting at the bench, he felt it proper to point toward where her feet would have been.

  “The pedals beneath are attached to a drive belt,” he announced, squatting down to point at them. Standing, he removed the sheaf of music on top of the instrument and looked around for an appropriate place to deposit the papers. With a smile, André took them.

  Allen now opened up the main body of the instrument and the women gazed inside.

  Instead of strings there were dozens of glass goblets of various sizes, mounted on a shaft. Sitting down on the bench, Allen began to push on the pedals. The end of the shaft holding the glass goblets moved and within a few seconds they were rotating rapidly.

  “It really is some infernal machine,” Miss Shippen cried.

  André laughed.

  “Demonstrate please, Lieutenant,” André urged.

  A crystal goblet filled with chalk rested next to the instrument. Allen dipped two fingers in, coating them, then lightly touched one of the rotating goblets.

  The room was suddenly filled with a strange, unearthly sound, a humming vibration exactly like that emitted when the rim of a crystal glass is vigorously rubbed with a damp finger.

  Peggy drew back slightly, and Captain André obviously was more than happy to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  Allen tried a few more notes, the tones shifting and then dying away as he stopped pumping the pedals. The glass goblets slowed in their spinning and there was silence.

  “Wondrous,” Elizabeth whispered.

  “And Dr. Franklin created this?” she asked.

  Allen nodded.

  “Sounds like the cry of a devil to me,” Peggy announced.

  André chuckled.

  “Go on, van Dorn, I’ve heard you tinkering with it before now. It’s why I dragged you in here to explain this thing.”

  Allen closed his eyes for a moment, surprised that anyone had noticed his attempts. He had only dared to try to play this wondrous instrument when he thought the rest of the staff was out of the house.

  He sat silent for a moment and then began to press the pedals. There was a faint whirling sound, like a lathe turning, which in fact was the principle Franklin used when designing this strange instrument. Allen had read that Franklin had a glassblower turn out dozens of sealed goblets of crystal of various sizes, testing each one for proper pitch, before then having them mounted on the rotating shaft.

  He touched G-sharp, and slowly worked up a scale, the sound of each note overlapping. With some nervousness, he put both hands on the keyboard and played a short piece by Haydn, one of his concertos, just a few dozen bars. It pleased him that he had hardly made a mistake.

  The sound was indeed unearthly—ethereal—something that only someone such as Franklin could have invented. It was, for Allen, soothing and gentle, so unlike the more strident tone of the harpsichord. If anything, it sounded more like a harp brushed by gentle hands.

  “I’ve been loath to try it until now,” André announced, “for after all, this is indeed a rare instrument. May I?”

  Allen smiled and offered the bench.

  André sat down, tinkered for a moment, working the pedals, playing a few scales.

  What followed was, for Allen, like a call from heaven, ethereal as only this instrument could create sound, but something far more. The raucous laughter from the party in the other room intruded for a moment, but then seemed to wash away as André more vigorously worked the pedals, volume building, fingers lightly touching the rotating goblets. He at first used but one finger, then two. At one point, though he made several mistakes, he used four fingers.

  With a sigh, André leaned back from the instrument, hands falling away, and opened his eyes.

  “You’ve been practicing as well,” Allen cried.

  André actually seemed a bit embarrassed and could only nod.

  “Sir, what was that?” Allen gasped.

  “Oh, something by Mozart.”

  “The Austrian?” Allen asked.

  “You know of him?” André replied, a bit of surprise in his voice.

  “Yes, sir. Before the war, I was in New York with my father on business and I attended a recital. There was one piece, a concerto by Mozart that haunted me. I have tried to find out anything I could about him, but, with this war…”

  He fell silent.

  The distant haughtiness that characterized André was gone as he looked up at Allen and smiled.

  “I actually heard him perform in Salzburg—let’s see, it was perhaps four years ago. I was there that summer taking the waters.

  “The Germans, their Bach, always Bach, far too heavy for my taste. Mozart is something different. You know what Haydn wrote of him?”

  “Such talent comes perhaps but once in a century,” Allen replied.

  “Yes, exactly!” André cried. “Sir, do you know anything else by him?” Allen asked.

  André smiled.

  “Lieutenant, it is John, not sir, this night.”

  Allen blushed with embarrassment and excitement.

  “I have performed my triumph,” André replied with a warm smile, “anything else I would surely fumble. But by coincidence I have actually ordered other pieces by him. If the wind is right and rebel raiders do not interdict, copies should arrive shortly from Petracci’s of London. I will be delighted to share them with you. One was actually written for this new wonder of Dr. Franklin’s. Perhaps we can master them together.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Allen replied warmly.

  “Allen, it is John.”

  And he then offered a most uncharacteristic gesture for any British officer: He extended his hand, which Allen took and shook.

  André stood up and retrieved his glass of wine, taking a sip.

  “You surprise me, Allen.”

  “How so?”

  “Do not be insulted, but, how do I dare say it…”

  “A provincial who knows Mozart?” Allen offered, and there was, even though he tried to control it, a bit of a defensive tone in his voice.

  “No insult intended, but, yes, I must say yes. I am surprised that word of the Austrian would have reached here.”

  “Word of many things reaches here,” Allen replied, and for the first time since joining Grey’s staff he felt he could let his guard down. “Just because we are, as you say, colonials or provincials does not mean that we are an ill-educated lot of bumpkins.”

  André held up his hand in a gesture of reconciliation. “I did not mean insult.”

  “No, sir,” he hesitated, “I mean John. No insult, but I will say that it could be one reason why I serve with General Grey.”

  “How is that?”

  And as he asked the question, André took another sip of his wine, looking at Allen with an interest that had never been there before.

  “Though the Atlantic is wide, and it might take two months or more for the works of Mozart to reach our shore, nevertheless, they do arrive here. And with his work also comes the London Gazette, which, in the years before this war, we read with increasing interest and dismay; the latest books from the publishers of London; and, dare I say now, even the writings of Voltaire and Rousseau. In some ways, we are no more distant from London by sail than Edinburgh by wagon if the wind is fair.”

  “And yet you Americans do seem so distant.”

  “How so?”

  “Recall, I was a prisoner for a year out in
the frontier wilds beyond Lancaster.”

  Allen could not suppress a bit of a laugh.

  André bristled slightly. “What is so amusing in that?”

  “Nothing, seriously, nothing. Maybe sixty years ago Lancaster was the edge of the frontier, but now? It is a region settled by the Germans who hold against war, the Dunkers and Mennonites, and our own English Quakers. Sorry to beg to differ, but the frontier wilds are now somewhere out near Pittsburgh, three hundred miles westward on the banks of the Ohio.”

  “I have never seen or been forced to endure such rude, ill-bred, foul-smelling bumpkins in my life,” André replied, voice rising slightly, dark complexion reddening. “Barely one in five was literate, they drank to excess, and tobacco seemed to be stuffed into their cheek from the moment they were weaned until they fell into their graves. The promises made when my regiment surrendered under what I thought were honorable terms were ignored. They are a different race altogether and not Englishmen.”

  He hesitated, his anger showing, and he checked himself. “Not subjects of the Crown as I would know them.”

  “And yet I am a subject of the Crown, am I not?”

  André smiled. “Yes.”

  “And yet the men who held you captive, are they not still subjects of the Crown?”

  André shook his head. “Damn them, yes they are. Rebels, though, but, yes, they must be subjects of the Crown and conform to that.”

  He looked at Peggy and Elizabeth, who stood silent.

  “My pardon, ladies, for my rude words.”

  “Oh, I do agree with you, though,” Peggy replied. “When men like that would come to my father’s office he would joke afterwards that he would need to bathe immediately afterwards.”

  Elizabeth laughed politely but said nothing.

  “I agree with you, John,” Allen replied. “But we must realize that most are men who fled Scotland and Ireland, or are the poorest of England and Germany. They came here to seek a new life. They did not come here necessarily to flee our king. If treated with fairness, I daresay, and I wish to believe, that many would renew their allegiance. That is why I stand on this side. Together England and this America, united, could reach to the Mississippi and beyond. Torn apart, though, it will be France, Spain, or others that shall rule here in the end.”

  “Precisely my point. But instead, these rude bumpkins and that turncoat Washington will lie in bed with the French?” André hesitated, looking at the two women. “Again my apologies. I fear that I do not hold my wine well this evening, and have let my passions take rein.”

  Peggy smiled at him.

  “No offense whatsoever, Captain André. I most fully agree. The French are such detestable creatures and I am disgusted that neighbors and former countrymen of mine seek their aid.”

  “They have no recourse left,” Allen replied somewhat heatedly.

  “So do I infer that you agree with their courting the French?” André asked coolly.

  “No, of course not. It is why I am in this uniform. I believe in a united British Empire just as much as you do, sir.”

  André forced a smile and nodded.

  “I regret the treatment you received while a prisoner,” Allen offered. “Do not assume for an instant, John, that such is the manner of all here on this side of the Atlantic. The rebels are but a small portion, a very small portion, of those who reside here. Most of us wish for an ending to this fratricidal war, a return of peace, and the king’s fair justice.” He hesitated for an instant and then continued. “A king’s justice free of the manipulations of some who have created this tragedy.”

  “Who are you referring to?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that,” Allen replied.

  “Would you put Benjamin Franklin in such a category?” Elizabeth interjected, and both turned to her with surprise at her sudden entry into the conversation.

  “Dr. Franklin?” Allen asked. “All admire him as the greatest scientist and philosopher of our age.”

  “And yet he did sign the Declaration,” Elizabeth replied.

  “I would prefer to think the rashness of the moment informed that decision,” André stated. “General Grey and Lord Howe have attempted repeatedly to extend the utmost courtesy and understanding to him, and yet even now he is in Versailles plotting against his rightful king.”

  “Perhaps we should ask why he is there, rather than here,” and as she spoke, Allen felt her gaze lingering on him.

  André laughed softly.

  “At least we have the courtesy of his house,” he said, forcing a laugh from the others, “and let the world observe we repay him by respecting his property and not despoiling it the way the French or Russians would.”

  Allen nodded in agreement.

  “And I pray that my countrymen take note of that.”

  “Your countrymen?” Peggy asked, and now her gaze, rather than innocent, was sharply focused on him.

  “Yes, our countrymen,” Allen replied. “Yours as well, Miss Shippen.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Oh there you are, André!”

  The four turned. General Grey stood in the doorway of the library, beside him a captain of the navy who, from André’s satirical sketch, Allen recognized as their guest, and the excuse for this evening’s party.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you. Besides your valiant effort at art in honor of our guest of the evening, I hear rumor that you have created a few lines of classical poetry.”

  André turned away from Allen and offered a formal salute to Grey and then the captain.

  “Oh, champion of Britannia, thou son of Neptune,” André announced. “Is it time for me to embarrass myself with that bit of doggerel?”

  Grey smiled. “Your audience awaits.”

  André turned back to Allen. “My friend, and from tonight I think our love of fine music at least unites us, let us master this device of Franklin and I will attempt to teach you that piece by Mozart.” André again extended his hand and Allen clasped it.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “John, from now on it is John. I must confess I have, shall I say, a certain antipathy for some whom I’ve met on this alien shore since this war began, but you, Allen, you are an Englishman at heart.”

  André next turned to Miss Shippen and extended his arm.

  “Good lady, I would be honored if you would stand by my side while I attempt not to embarrass myself with this performance.”

  She smiled coyly, obviously pleased by the attention, and took his arm.

  “Your audience awaits you, sir,” Grey repeated with a smile. The small entourage left, Allen undecided if he should follow.

  As André stepped into the parlor, where the party was in full swing, applause erupted at the sight of the frigate captain, Grey clasping him by the elbow, and André with Peggy at his side. Allen let them go, turning back to the glass harmonica. Sitting down, he slowly pressed the pedals, rotating the lathe so slowly that when he pressed C-sharp minor there was barely a whisper. From where he sat, he could see directly into the parlor, and could hear shouts of laughter and cheers as Grey called for a toast first for the captain and then for André, who had been convinced by a drunken major to stand atop one of the chairs, “putting your foot where Franklin’s fat backside once rested.” A momentary glance from André across the corridor to Allen suggested that André felt uncomfortable with the major’s words.

  Allen was tempted to join the crowd. They were, after all, his comrades, and though shyness at times crippled him, he knew that most of the men of Grey’s command had come to accept him, not in any way as their social equal, but at least for his coolness and bravery under fire, his ability to inspire troops by his calm demeanor, and his open loyalty to Grey.

  André began to declaim his hastily written poem:

  Oh the crashing of thunder and of guns

  When Britannia’s brave sons

  Sailed forth to smite traitors about to run…

  Allen went
to the library door and, standing behind it, let it slip nearly closed. He returned to the strange instrument created by Franklin, and pressed the pedals, feeling the slight vibration of the turning lathe. Touching a key, he tried to remember on what note André had begun Mozart’s gentle piece. Finding it to have been C major, he let memory drift and picked out a few more notes, playing out the first few chords. Cheers and shrieks of laughter erupted from the other room. He half caught a bit of the poem alluding to the less than legitimate nature of the lineage of those whom “Britannia’s sons” face upon the open seas.

  “I thought you might wish for something to eat.”

  Startled, he looked up.

  It was Elizabeth Risher, bearing a china plate in one hand, upon it a slice of steaming apple pie covered in cream. In the other hand she was balancing two glasses of wine.

  Fumbling, he stood up, not sure how to respond as she offered one of the glasses to him and motioned for him to sit back down, setting the plate atop the lid of the glass harmonica.

  “Am I interrupting you, sir?”

  “Please, miss, just Allen is fine.”

  “And Elizabeth for me.”

  He nervously smiled.

  She sipped her glass of wine and put it down.

  “Too sweet, this claret, frankly, a bit of cider would be better,” she offered and then smiled, “perhaps even some hard cider.”

  He could not help but laugh softly.

  “You handled yourself well with the captain,” she offered.

  He could not reply.

  “He really is a charming man. Typically English in so many ways, but beneath that a man of noble bearing, and if he has befriended you, he will stand by your side. Really he is a good soul. My friend Peggy, I think, is quite interested in him.”

  “He is a gentleman, to be certain,” Allen offered.

  “And so very English, if you know what I mean,” Elizabeth replied with a smile. “Sadly, they come over here, can live here for years, but in the end never understand who we really are.”

  Allen grinned. “Yes, he is a noble soul.”

  “My friend is totally smitten with him.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “As some folks say, I think she has set her cap for him.”