Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  The others sat down and he suppressed a sigh as he did the same. It had been a long three-week journey from Boston. He had barely slept the night before—so voracious were the bedbugs that he had finally abandoned the cornhusk mattress and simply sprawled out on the hard, drafty, cold floor by Azor, next to the fireplace. Proper hosts would have understood the needs of a traveler. In Europe he would have been met by his host but then quickly handed off to servants for a light repast, a warm bath, a good shave, and a proper nap, while his uniform was cleaned and brushed down, wig seen to, shirt boiled—and then only in the evening would come the formalities.

  These Americans struck him as a curious lot indeed: British in certain ways, but a mixture of other qualities as well. On the road from Lancaster to here he had even stayed in a tavern owned by a German from Magdeburg, where he had been born, and though obviously of peasant stock, the innkeeper proudly rattled off the names of the nobility he had served as a cobbler and officers he had known. He was even fairly current on gossip from the Fatherland. The man claimed to have fought at Minden, slapped his left arm, and rolled the sleeve of his shirt up to show the scar of a saber slash.

  In fact, his knowledge of the names and doings of court were so good that von Steuben felt a bit uncomfortable that the man just might know a bit too much about himself, his family, and the fact that, though he was indeed a baron, it was a title that had been purchased and was not of long lineage…or some of the rumors as to why he was no longer in service to Frederick. But if the innkeeper did know it, which he suspected from a couple of veiled comments, as a fellow countryman he had kept mum as they drank themselves into happy oblivion. In the morning he had left his last silver thaler on his bed and a brief note of thanks for his hospitality and what he hoped would be respectful silence when it came to a fellow countryman making a new way in this new world.

  Du Ponceau, who had a fairly good grasp of English, had pointed out the distinguishing characteristics of people they had met along the way: the very proper residents of Boston; Scots Irish refugees living along the frontier boundaries; the Dutch of the Hudson Valley and north Jersey; the familiar countrymen from Germany; the various Anabaptist sects that populated the region from Lancaster to here, known as Dunkers; Mennonites and Amish from the Rhineland who had fled here for religious freedom. He could not understand their staunch sentiments against war of any kind (resembling in their pacifism the English Quakers he was told had founded Pennsylvania), but the orderliness of their fields, their homes as big as barns, their barns as big as churches, their neatly arrayed orchards that stretched for acres were to him a touch of home. It filled him with pride and it was good to speak German again as they passed along the road.

  Such a strange nation indeed, he thought, as he looked around the table, the dozen gathered here returning his gaze with open curiosity.

  Their greetings having been offered, it became obvious that they were expecting him to say something.

  He had been inwardly preparing himself for this moment for weeks. His long conversations with John Hancock and Sam Adams were warning enough that he was wading into the perilous seas of a revolutionary government on the edge of defeat and sharply divided against itself. He had a sense that this strange land presented to him an opportunity that was now forever closed back in Europe, and that he must tread with utmost caution. If not for America, he would eventually have wound up either a drunkard or a suicide.

  Gates smiled at him and began to speak, von Steuben motioning for Du Ponceau to come over and stand by his side. He whispered for him to translate directly into German.

  “I trust your journey was not too toilsome,” Gates started, and von Steuben offered the usual pleasantries in reply. Even as they spoke, Du Ponceau doing an impressive job of rapidly translating, he carefully scanned the others. From several he detected bored disinterest. The excitement of the day was over, a storm was raging outside, the tavern was warm, the rum hot, and one man was already motioning for the innkeeper to bring the pitcher over and refill his mug. As he watched Gates intently, nodding with the completion of nearly every sentence, he shot sidelong glances at the others and noted who was paying attention. In the background he could hear Vogel chatting with the innkeeper, who, by good fortune, spoke German, and Vogel was already adroitly at work, casually asking who each man was, their rank and titles, so he could give him a detailed report later on each.

  Gates, not too subtly, finally drew the subject around to more direct questions.

  “You are aware, sir,” Gates announced, “of the dire straits the army has been placed in this winter after the disastrous defeats before Philadelphia and the loss of our capital as a result.”

  “Temporarily lost,” one of the congressmen sniffed. “Come spring, with proper leadership we shall take it back.”

  “That is why I rushed here as swiftly as possible,” von Steuben replied. “Upon my arrival, I heard of these events. When I departed from France, the latest news then was from early in the summer, of the hard fighting in the north. Needless to say, General Gates, I was delighted upon landing to hear of your glorious, hard-fought victory at Saratoga and the proper credit you have received for that triumph.”

  Gates, smiling broadly, looked around at the others, some nodding. He took it in. A Prussian would have taken such bald-faced praise and flattery without a flicker of a smile.

  “And your opinion, sir, as to how news of this victory, which surely has arrived in France by now, will likely be greeted by the court there?”

  “Sir, I am not in position to say, not being in the service of His Most Catholic Majesty.”

  He looked up at Du Ponceau.

  “Peter, perhaps you could render an opinion?”

  “I am certain, sir, it will be greeted joyously,” he responded in English.

  “It better,” one of those on the other side of the table grumbled. “They certainly are taking their damn time about helping us.”

  Von Steuben did not understand the man’s words but sensed the tone. Du Ponceau flushed slightly but did not reply.

  “We fear that the setbacks suffered before Philadelphia will negate the positive gains achieved at Saratoga,” Gates announced.

  “I am certain, sir, that the capture of an entire British army, unheard-of in any campaign in Europe across more than several hundred years, cannot be compared to what is but a temporary setback here,” he replied.

  He watched the Americans carefully as Du Ponceau translated. Who nodded, who did not react, who did not seem to care what was being said.

  “And your opinion of the setbacks here?” one of the congressmen asked—who, he was not certain.

  “Sir, they transpired while I was in transit. I have not had time to study them.”

  No one responded for a moment. He remained erect, returning their glances, smiling affably.

  “Saratoga occurred while you were in transit, yet you apparently know of it,” someone else offered.

  “But of course, sir. However, news of it traveled to Boston faster than events this far away. And of course being a glorious victory it was the talk of the city when I arrived.”

  “And the reaction in Boston to all the news?” Gates asked. “Of both victory and defeat. What did Hancock, Samuel Adams, and others say to you?”

  “Sir. I cannot speak for Herr Adams or Herr Hancock and their innermost opinions. I should add, sir, that even if they did share something with me in confidence, as an officer I am trained to keep such confidences.”

  Du Ponceau translated, and he watched as there was some shaking of heads.

  “Let me add, gentlemen, that in the same vein, I consider conversations with men of position such as you to be in confidence as well, and upon that I give my solemn oath as a German officer who is offering you his sword. A Prussian officer never betrays the trust and confidences of a fellow officer or of those whom he serves.”

  He kept his attention focused on Gates now, as a conversation broke out among the Americans for
a few minutes.

  Gates glanced at him even as he spoke with one of the members of Congress on the other side of the table. Du Ponceau was obviously listening but felt it inappropriate to translate. He did recognize the name of Washington being mentioned several times.

  Finally Gates turned to him, eyes narrowing.

  “And of General Washington. Have you formed any opinion of him yet, sir?”

  Von Steuben smiled openly and, he hoped, disarmingly.

  “How could I? I have not yet met him. It would thus be unfair for me to even begin to offer an opinion other than to say that in the courts of Europe he is spoken of highly.”

  He hesitated, then quickly added, “Of course, sir, recall that I left before word of Saratoga had winged its way across the ocean, so I am certain, sir, that your name is as well known now as his.”

  It was bald flattery and nearly stuck to his tongue as he uttered it. He could see Du Ponceau looking at him with a bit of surprise. In nearly a month of traveling together, the two had transcended the differences of age, rank, and nationality and now knew each other as friends. His flattery was out of place, but Peter did not hesitate to translate.

  He had learned enough along the road to know what was now transpiring. These Americans all held an opinion, and above all else seemed to cherish the right to repeat that opinion loudly and often in every inn, tavern, and tap-room, from Boston to this rude outpost at what seemed like the end of the earth.

  It was Gates versus Washington. And before much longer there would be only one or the other. Of course there was pragmatic self-interest behind his words. That was part of the game of survival he was playing at this moment.

  It would either be Gates or Washington, and he was being boldly sounded out on it before the chill of the journey was even out of his bones. A true gentleman, a more adroit player, would have at first beguiled him with hospitality rather than grilling him. Let him relax for several days; ply him with choice wine and casual conversation concerning everything but the central topic before at last closing in.

  The way Gates now gazed at him told him so much. This man was not a gentleman. If he was to survive and bring some meaning to this journey of four thousand miles, though, he would have to master dealing with him. A true confrontation was about to explode between this man and Washington, who as yet was an unknown except for what others had told him.

  The prospect, however, of riding clear back to Boston, penniless and without a commission or employment, was terrifying. The game was here. It had to be played here, and he offered a bland smile as the others talked for several minutes among themselves in English. He knew Du Ponceau was gathering in every word, while in the far corner of the room Vogel was listening carefully as the innkeeper translated in hoarse whispers.

  Gates finally turned back to him.

  “We understand, sir, from your papers that came by post ahead of you, that under Frederick you were actually a lieutenant general.”

  He looked straight into Gates’s eyes and did not blink, and just merely nodded, not saying a word.

  “That, sir, is a rank higher than even mine,” Gates finally said.

  He did not respond for several seconds, then leaned back in his chair, took a sip of the buttered rum—which was rather tasty, far superior to the vodka of Russia, though never a match for a good cognac—and smiled good-naturedly.

  “Sir, such ranks and titles I left behind when I took ship to offer my sword here. Choose what rank you will for me, in order to avoid resentment from junior officers, native-born, who have won their spurs by hard fighting, sir. I would prefer to simply be a volunteer, to have time to prove my merit and then let you gentlemen decide my appropriate rank.”

  Du Ponceau translated that smoothly enough.

  “But according to our current rules and regulations,” Gates pointed out, “it is General Washington who nominates for promotion to the higher ranks. A privilege he guards most jealously.”

  Von Steuben juggled that for a few seconds.

  “And yet I must assume, as it is in Europe, that such nominations in the end are submitted to the supreme authority of the ruling powers.”

  Nods greeted his reply.

  “So you would agree to serve as a volunteer without any demand of rank and accept that ultimately your commission comes from this Congress?” Gates asked.

  “Of course,” he replied quickly.

  “And your pay, sir?” one of them asked, and he guessed it might be Laurens.

  He found that almost amusing. It would be the equivalent of the czarina or king of Prussia debating the pay of but one officer and then looking into a private purse. But then again, in the darkest days of the last war, Frederick was most likely reduced to that more than once.

  “If I have no defined rank, how could I, as a gentleman, demand a certain pay?”

  He laughed softly, and as his reply was translated there was laughter from the others as well.

  “But of course there are the harsh realities of this world, gentlemen,” he continued quickly, and the laughter was stilled.

  “I think it would be fair though to at least submit my expenses and be compensated in that way.”

  No one spoke for a moment, and the one he suspected was Laurens finally nodded. He felt it time to press the next point, which was a serious point of honor for him.

  “Also, I do hold these young gentlemen with me as indispensable,” and he gestured to Du Ponceau and the others of his retinue. “All of them offer their swords as well, as volunteers, and wish to serve as members of my staff. They are young and, as with all youth, somewhat naïve as to the world. Surely we can talk about their expenses as well along with some junior rank—say, captain—and reach an appropriate agreement.”

  He could see the visible relief in Du Ponceau’s eyes as the young man translated. Though of a well-placed family back in France, his purse was now as light as that of the man he followed, and the other young men were just as desperate.

  Besides, having several captains as his aides-decamp would establish his proper position, even if his own rank was not defined.

  “So we agree, then, to cover expenses, rank and posting to be discussed later,” Gates replied, bargaining like a shrewd merchant, “and that you will accept the position assigned to be subordinate to the authorities here.”

  Ah! He smiled inwardly and yet held his contempt from being visible. By “authorities,” Gates clearly meant himself.

  “Sir, I offer my skill as a trained staff officer of the Great von Steuben where it is most desperately needed at this moment. When you gentlemen decide where my skills as an officer and as an inspector general can be of greatest effect, there I wish to therefore embark in your service.”

  “Inspector general?” Gates snapped, and in that instant von Steuben knew he had misstepped.

  “Sir, this army already has an inspector general in Major General Conway.”

  He had heard nothing of this and hesitated.

  “Perhaps our guest means to serve in some capacity with the command of the inspector general’s office,” came a reply, the man speaking being the doctor.

  Gates looked over at the doctor and a hot debate ensued for several minutes, von Steuben silent, knowing better than to interfere.

  “Within the structure of command under General Conway,” Gates finally announced.

  “Of course, as you define it,” von Steuben replied quickly. He hesitated. “Of course I would like to assume my duties as quickly as possible,” he finally replied.

  He had no intention of lingering in this godforsaken place a day longer than necessary. Wherever the situation was most desperate, that is where he wanted to go. Most certainly there would be expenses—plenty of them, of course—but, by his honor, he expected to earn those expenses and not spend the rest of the winter languishing at this place, trading pleasantries with and being subservient to Gates, a man for whom he was already developing a distaste.

  “In due course,” was all that
Gates said in reply, and his heart sank. He wanted to go as quickly as possible to the center of action. Surviving the politics of court, be it imperial or this ragtag group, was not his forte. He feared now that until he could somehow persuade Gates of some sort of loyalty, he would be stuck in this dreary outpost for months to come.

  Valley Forge

  February 8, 1778

  He could no longer contain himself! She was here!

  General George Washington bounded down the steps as the carriage door opened, and with a radiant smile Martha stepped down. Snow, now nearly a blizzard, swirled around them as he came down the walkway with long strides. From the corner of his eye he saw his guard company lined up to either side at present arms in salute, their normally fixed demeanor breaking, many of them grinning as he raced by and, once he was past, looking sidelong at each other and nodding.

  “Extra rations tonight and maybe a gill of rum,” Peter whispered to Putman, who was standing next to him, and smiled in agreement. A poke came from behind from Sergeant Harris, reminding them to remain at attention.

  Washington came up to her, his staff officers already gathered around, hats off, offering their greetings, looking up as he approached, stepping back, all of them smiling.

  “My dear, thank God you are safe and you are here,” he gasped, taking her bare outstretched hands into his, pulling her closer as if to kiss her.

  “George,” she whispered, looking up at him, “remember, they’re watching.” He caught himself, a quick glance around. Lafayette was openly grinning; of course the French would be far more demonstrative at a time like this. General Greene and his wife, by his side—she had arrived only yesterday—were both smiling. Tilghman, Laurens, and Hamilton, as always the proper staff officers, tried to appear dispassionate. Hundreds of troops had come streaming down from their cabins, pouring out in spite of the raging storm to see the general’s wife.

  There was a scattering of cheers, a wag crying, “Go on and kiss her, sir, we ain’t watching.”