All stood silent as Wayne took a sip.
My God, he sighed inwardly, this is good. Most likely aged in this oak cask for at least several years.
He took another sip and then looked at the men.
Fifty gallons, a hundred men. Come tomorrow he would face a court-martial before Washington if he let this brew loose to his command.
He looked at the grinning Garner and his three confederates.
“Listen carefully, you bastards,” he snapped, forcing himself to make a deliberate show of emptying the rest of his cup on the ground.
“When I leave here, a quarter gill apiece to each of you and, damn you, not a word to the others. And I mean that. If any of you even remotely appears to be drunk, I’ll have you all flogged through the camp.
“Do we understand each other?”
“But of course, General,” Garner replied.
“Garner?”
“Sir?”
“This liquor is for the sick and injured only.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Garner, when the surgeons took off your nephew’s leg for the frostbite and rot last month, what would you have done to give the poor lad a sip of this to ease his pain before dying?”
Garner stiffened.
“Yes, sir,” he whispered. “Of course I’ll see that it is taken care of properly.”
Wayne came up to the corporal and patted him on the shoulder.
“Get this safely back and dropped off at the hospital and it is Sergeant Garner, starting tomorrow, and a gallon of this brew for you and your men.”
“Thank you, sir,” Garner replied huskily, then paused. “No need to bribe me, sir, like that. I’d of done it anyway now that you made me think of poor Jamie, and bless you, sir, for remembering him.”
Wayne clasped his old comrade on the shoulder and left the barn, head swimming slightly from the kick of the corn liquor, concerned that others might now smell it on his breath.
The loading was going apace. Half a dozen wagons, each burdened down with half a ton of ground meal or flour, were drawn to one side of the road. A dozen or so curious onlookers had gathered, some supportive of Johansson, most just smiling that it was his misfortune rather than their own. They chatted away with the soldiers, asking for news of how the war was going. The farmer with the wagon who had tried to flee was protesting vehemently—that he was a good patriot, with two sons in the militia—even as his grain was off-loaded and fed into the mill.
Sergeant Travis seemed to have reached some sort of understanding with Johansson as they examined each bag of flour going out, noting down the weight when it was first tossed upon a scale. Wayne assumed that of course Travis was making Johansson feel better about this affair by adding more than a few pounds to each bag on his tally list.
It was past noon and Wayne ordered a halt in their labors. The reward for venturing out on this task was now offered. Two thick smoked hams were carried down from the upper barn, along with a couple of bushel baskets of dried apples. Sergeants lined their men up and played out the ritual of “Who shall have this?” but today there was no bickering, for each slice was at least a pound or more, rich with fat and seasoning. Some of the men decided to build small fires by the side of the road to roast it first; others just ate it cold along with the dried apples, and handfuls of sauerkraut hauled down from the upper barn as well, all of it washed down with near on to a pint each of small beer given to them by the tavern keeper in Phoenixville.
It was the most the men had eaten in better than a month. A reward but, as Wayne also feared, too much for some: Even before they were finished, they had to run off to the privacy of a nearby woodlot. Several of the men became ill from the rich and unaccustomed fare as well. As to the barrel of corn liquor, Garner kept close guard on it, and stood by the wagon upon which it was loaded.
Miller Johansson and his sons and grandsons watched them all with sullen dislike. The miller kept circulating around, Sergeant Travis solicitously by his side, scribbling notes as to everything taken: pots of sauerkraut; corn liquor; dozens of bushel baskets of dried apples; the smoked hams; six cows on the hoof, all of them giving at least two gallons a day of fine milk and cream. The fodder from the barn was put before the horses of the dragoons and wagon teams. There was even tobacco from a neighboring barn, a rare find this far north, hung up to dry in the rafters. Men stuffed wads into their cheeks, filled their pipes after their feast, or stuffed whole leaves into their haversacks to share later with comrades.
It was hard to drive the men back to work. Most of them lay in the sunlight along the side of the road, drifting off to a few minutes of sleep. Exceptions were those whose innards the feast had unsettled after so many weeks of privation.
The last of the heavy bags of ground meal and flour were finally loaded aboard the wagons, smoked hams carried out of the barn along with the remaining baskets of dried apples, destined for the hospitals as was the sauerkraut, to combat the scurvy that was rampant within the army. The poor farmer who had been caught trying to flee found himself holding a voucher, signed by Washington, to be certain, but now minus the wagon, two mules, and half a ton of wheat, except for a hundredweight that Wayne told him to take back to his family, loaded aboard a wheelbarrow that Johansson agreed to rent to him for a pence a day.
Wayne looked over the receipt that Travis had laboriously filled out and shook his head. If paid fairly with real coin and not Continentals, the miller had made out well this day, overcharging by a good 20 percent or more.
But it was all part of a tragic game. It was doubtful at this moment that Congress would ever honor the voucher issued by Washington and counter-signed by him. Those surrounding Conway, Gates, and Mifflin would denounce it as not following proper channels and tell the poor miller to go to hell. They would then forward the bill directly back to the general with a terse letter of reprimand that he had not followed proper procedure and that, beyond this, he had agreed to overpay the miller, a charge that might bring an investigation. If the war was lost, the miller would lose. If the war was won, even then it might take years for Johansson to press his case on the Congress, while in turn he would be facing the lawyers of many an angry client of his mill.
But that was not Wayne’s problem now, as he took the receipt filled out by Travis, scanned it, smiled, and asked for proper ink and quill.
Three tons of flour of fine grade,
One and a half tons of corn meal of medium grade,
One half ton of ground barley, fine grade,
Four hundred weight of rye, fine grade,
Thirty-one smoked hams, each of fifty pounds weight,
Six head of dairy cows,
Seven crocks of sauerkraut each of twenty pounds weight,
Seventeen chickens, thirty-one bushel baskets of dried apples, three of dried peaches, three thousand two hundred board feet of cut lumber, one fifty gallon barrel of corn whiskey, four bottles of port, six barrels of hard cider ten gallons each, twenty one bushels of potatoes, three hundred pounds of hay, three sows of two hundred pounds each…
He tallied up the figures, telling the miller to assign to each the current going price once he was gone, which he was certain the man would inflate another 50 percent.
He signed and left the office, the miller, his sons, and grandsons following, joined by the farmer who had lost his wagon, mules, and half a ton of wheat ground while they had looted the place.
He ran the figures in his head.
One day on the road and they had enough flour to keep Baker General Ludwig busy for at least two days, at one pound of baked bread per man. Meat, if the cows were fat enough, along with the smoked hams: barely enough for a day.
The kraut, apples, and whiskey: not even enough for the thousand in the army hospital, let alone those who were ill but still languishing in huts with their comrades.
Before leaving, Wayne had the audacity to suggest that the miller concentrate on cutting lumber for the time being. He told him that the army would pa
y a fair price for the wood, to be used in construction and road making. No sense in suggesting that he entice the local farmers to bring their grain in for grinding. News of today’s expedition would keep all of them away from any miller in the region. In a few days’ time, news of this new policy of confiscation by the Continental Army would sweep the countryside.
He pointed his column back east, the day now so warm that men marched with blanket capes removed, barefoot in the mud that was almost warm, in high spirits with full stomachs except for those stricken sick by the repast and riding in the wagons. One of them, an old comrade of Wayne’s command from the beginning of the war, had been so stricken with an attack of the flux that he lay prone and semiconscious in a wagon, crying feebly, anxious comrades to either side of the wagon. Wayne had of course relented and ordered that the poor man be given all the corn liquor he might desire to ease his passing. Chances were he would be dead before they reached the hospital. He looked the other way when several of his comrades dipped into the cup of liquor as well before passing it on.
As they marched back, as before, many of the farms were shuttered: gates closed, except yet again for the few patriots who stood by the roadside. The tireless mother, anticipating their return, had baked enough biscuits so that each man would have two. And of course she reminded him yet again to please let her son have leave to visit her. He could not bring himself to stop, go inside with her, and break the news. He could face battle without flinching. But a grieving mother? He felt himself a coward as he rode on, whispering to one of his staff, who was horrified with the assignment, to stay behind and tell her the truth…that her son would never come home.
Chapter Nine
York
February 8, 1778
It had been a long three weeks on the road, and the end was finally in sight. Baron Friedrich von Steuben and company had crossed the Susquehanna River via ferry shortly after dawn, and now, after cresting a low rise, finally saw the town of York, the current capital of the United States. It was a most pitiful, god-awful sight, he thought.
“Merciful God,” he heard Du Ponceau whisper. “Just what have we gotten ourselves into?” The sentiment of his interpreter was echoed by the others.
Von Steuben tried to maintain a calm, dispassionate exterior, not reacting openly, but inside he wanted to scream in agreement. If they were approaching the capital of the cause they had pledged their swords and careers to, they had most certainly joined the losing side.
Frontier outposts in the wilds of Russia had looked better than what he now gazed upon. The road, if anyone could call it that, was a frozen, slippery track, covered now with nearly half a foot of the snow that had begun falling during the night. At least the snow gave their horses some traction. The storm had parted for a moment to give him a glimpse of the alleged town ahead. It contained nothing more than what he assumed was some sort of town hall or courthouse of clapboard at its center, a few taverns, a broken-down, abandoned-looking stockade with a few sagging log cabins within, and not a sentry in sight. In the center of the town was a cluster of shops and a few churches, some of them of rough-hewn logs.
It was definitely no Berlin, nor Paris, and certainly not St. Petersburg. The pettiest princeling of the lower Rhine or the Balkans could claim a court a hundred times more splendid. It looked like the last refuge of a dying cause, and his heart sank. This was the destination he had ventured all upon, had been traveling to since boarding a ship in October in France, running the dangers of the British blockade and the storm-tossed Atlantic. This was the destination he had traveled to for three weeks on horseback from Boston, staying at more than one tavern with beds filled with bugs, eating bad food, and drinking wretched, watery beer while greedy innkeepers demanded hard currency or told him he and his men could instead sleep in the barn. If ever it looked like his career was truly at the end of the line, it was here at this moment, as he reined in to look around for his dog. He was close to giving way to cursing despair when he spied Azor over by a fence rail, claiming more territory. Azor finished, tore up some snow with his hind legs, shook himself, ventured to the next fence post, sniffed it, gave a snort of disdain, and then repeated the ceremony of conquest.
His loyal dog broke the glum mood he had fallen into.
“He has claimed enough territory between here and Boston for an empire greater than the czarina’s,” he exclaimed in French.
His jest broke the melancholic mood of his companions, Peter Du Ponceau throwing back his head and laughing and then, with a flamboyant gesture, dismounting, and going to the same fence post to relieve himself.
“Now see here, dog, this land is now mine!” he cried, and the others laughed and applauded.
Azor looked at him disapprovingly with his massive head cocked to one side, and once the Frenchman was finished, he went back and laid claim to the same spot yet again, causing the others to laugh.
“Someone is coming,” Vogel, von Steuben’s servant, announced, pointing toward York.
A lone rider was coming up from the village, a man in uniform riding a rather fine mount.
Pulled from the merriment of the moment, von Steuben assumed a serious demeanor as the rider approached, reined in, and saluted.
“Baron von Steuben, I presume,” he asked.
Von Steuben nodded, returning his salute.
“I am Captain Rutledge, of General Gates’s staff,” he announced in a halting attempt at French.
“I have been sent to guide you and your comrades.”
“Lead on, Captain Rutledge,” von Steuben replied.
Rutledge turned, his horse slipping on the snow-and ice-covered road. The man, maintaining his saddle well, broke into a trot, the others following. As they came down off the slope and into the village, von Steuben was surprised and pleased that there was something of a turnout for him. Apparently a fair number of the citizens of this outpost had been rousted out, in spite of the storm. They stood by the side of the icy track, waving their American flags, a few even holding up homemade Prussian and French flags, a couple calling out greetings in German, which he smiled and acknowledged with a bow.
Rutledge led the cavalcade into the village square, a patch of open ground, rutted, covered over with snow, and already trampled down. A company of rather well-dressed infantry was standing at attention, fifers playing a tune which he was coming to recognize as their “Yankee Doodle.” Several officers in rather well-trimmed uniforms awaited with a handsomely dressed civilian delegation around them, which he assumed were members of their Congress.
He reined in and with a flourish saluted the American colors, an action that drew cheers from the small crowd, and was greeted by salutes in return and a ragged volley fired by the infantry company. He could not help but note that a number of the muskets misfired, the men not having kept their locks properly covered in the storm, something that, if given authority, he would most certainly see to. It was a display of amateurism that would certainly have drawn, afterwards, the wrath of any proper officer of the Prussian or even the Russian army.
Orderlies came up to hold the reins as von Steuben and his entourage dismounted. Azor, a bit frightened by the volley, was by his side, looking around nervously. He whispered for the dog to sit and stay, and the animal obeyed for once, but then slowly crept up behind von Steuben as he stepped forward to meet the delegation.
“Baron von Steuben,” Rutledge announced, “it is my honor to introduce you to General Horatio Gates, chairman of the Board of War.”
Von Steuben made it a point of coming to attention first, clicking heels together, and saluting by bowing and removing his hat, a gesture that he saw pleased Gates and the others.
They shook hands, and Gates, speaking through Rutledge, introduced him to the president of the Congress, Laurens, the other members of Congress present, and the officers of his staff. It took some minutes for the ritual to be played out, Rutledge’s French so pathetic that after several introductions von Steuben was completely lost as to who was
who. Throughout, the storm renewed its fury. Most of the civilian crowd fled back into their homes or the taverns.
Von Steuben introduced each of his traveling companions and was pleased when at least one of the members of Congress—he believed it was the doctor he had heard about—did not hesitate to approach Azor, whose sheer size normally intimidated most. He gave him a playful pat on the head and a scratch behind the ears, which immediately earned him Azor’s affection, the dog rearing up and putting his muddy paws on the doctor’s shoulders, ready to lick him in gratitude.
Von Steuben snapped a command and the dog went back on all fours, the display breaking the formality of the moment and causing the group to relax.
“May I suggest we retire within?” Gates announced, and von Steuben nodded his agreement.
The honor guard fired another volley. This time barely a third of the muskets discharged. Fifers broke into a shrill-sounding piece and the unit marched off. Once clear of the village square, all broke ranks and dashed for the shelter of the broken-down stockade and the warmth of the fires within the dilapidated cabins.
In the tavern, servants helped von Steuben and the others as they struggled to pull off their heavy, ice-encrusted jackets and capes. Azor trotted over to the oversize fireplace and settled down before it, as Gates gestured to a table around which were a dozen chairs, tankards of hot buttered rum quickly placed before the group as they sat down.
It was a difficult moment for von Steuben—he didn’t know who should sit where—but, fortunately, Du Ponceau and the others who traveled with him already understood the game, and did not move to take any of the chairs, contenting themselves with going over to the long, rough-hewn bar, where the innkeeper had set out rum for them.
Before sitting down, Gates gestured for von Steuben to sit by his right side and then offered a toast to him and his companions. The toast was returned by von Steuben with a call, in halting English, for a blessing upon the American cause and confusion to its enemies, which was greeted with something of a cheer.
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 24