Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  Harris went up to him.

  “Your report?”

  “Nothing, Sergeant.”

  “That’s not the way to do it and you know it!”

  “Sergeant of the guard. No one has entered or departed since I assumed watch,” Sanders announced, teeth chattering. “All quiet, Sergeant.”

  “That’s better. Now dash inside. Unless the boys stole it while I’ve been out, there’s salt pork, and even some warm cider.”

  Sanders made a feeble gesture of salute and shuffled off for the barn.

  “You think you can stand it?” Harris asked. “It is your turn, you know.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Harris patted him on the shoulder.

  “Just two hours, lad. I’ll keep a spot open for you by the stove.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Harris patted him again and then wasted no time retreating to the barn, its outline dim in the driving storm, which blasted full into Peter’s face.

  Peter stood silent. After a few minutes the cold had seeped into his damp boots, each blast of wind in his face sending shivers through him.

  He could, at times, hear laughter from within. Snatches of a song caught his attention. It was a hymn. Then another. In the past, before Mrs. Greene and now Mrs. Washington arrived, if there was singing it was usually the songs of soldiers. That had changed and the sound of it warmed his heart.

  Jonathan was dead. Sarah was in Trenton. Allen was most likely in Philadelphia, warm and content this night while I freeze out here.

  But at least, for the moment, the echo of the hymn warmed his soul.

  The evening’s entertainment passed with warmth and friendliness. Martha was back by his side, and he could see the delight in the smiles of his young staff and older comrades for his happiness. At least here, at this moment, the world felt at ease.

  The meal gradually broke up, Martha insisting that she help General Greene’s wife with cleaning up alongside Billy Lee. The house was warm, his stomach full, and he now felt a great unease.

  Excusing himself from the last few well-wishers, he went into the foyer and drew on his cape and hat.

  “Sir?”

  It was Laurens.

  “Just going out for a walk.”

  “Sir, should I call the guard detail?”

  He shook his head. Laurens was obsessed with the fear that a British agent, an assassin, might be lurking somewhere, and he was always on guard. Washington himself had long ago taken something of a Presbyterian view of such matters…if fated to die that way, that was fate, and he would not live in constant fear of it.

  “May I go with you, sir?”

  He smiled.

  “Stay here in case any dispatches arrive. I just need to walk off the meal.”

  Before Laurens could argue further, he opened the door and stepped out into the storm. The private guarding the entryway roused himself and snapped to attention.

  He looked over at the lad, hat rim bent down with the weight of wet snow.

  “It is Private Wellsley, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Ah, yes, sir.”

  “All quiet.”

  “Sir. Yes, sir. All quiet.”

  “Good work, soldier, stand at ease,” he replied and walked on.

  Closing the gate to the barnyard, he walked up the snow-covered road to the main encampment area. Snow swirled about him, all but obliterating the world, carpeting it in pure clean whiteness. Storms like this were rare along the Potomac, but often, out on the frontier, especially in the western Virginian mountains, a blow like this would come on. He and his companions would quickly pitch a camp and sometimes wait for days for it to clear. And when it did, all was blanketed in purity of white.

  As he reached the outer ring of encampments and company streets, he slowed. He knew his form was hard to conceal, for he was, after all, one of the tallest men in the army. He hunched his shoulders down, and pulled the brim of his cap low over his brow, passing a picket, who simply saluted after he replied with the password for the day.

  The air was rich with the scent of burning wood. He could see the reflected glow of fires from the wattle and daub chimney tops of the cabins. There were snatches of conversations, laughter, the sound of a violin playing a jaunty air. Everyone except the forlorn sentries was inside—out of the storm. He stood silent, listening for a few minutes in the middle of a company street. There had been full rations today and the men were relatively content. With the storm upon them, the instinct was to huddle together close to the fires within, and only to venture out for the most pressing of personal business.

  An officer passed, hesitated, asked for the password, looked closely at him as if not sure.

  “Cold night, sir,” he finally ventured.

  “’Tis.”

  “Can I get you anything, sir?”

  “How goes it with your men?” he asked.

  The officer seemed to hesitate.

  “Hard day, sir. One of the regimental pets died.”

  “Sir?”

  “Our drummer boy. Only fifteen. Lung sickness. He had a father and three brothers in the ranks. Everyone is taking it hard.”

  The officer nodded to the cabin they were standing near.

  Unlike the others, from within this one he could hear crying.

  On impulse he turned and went to the cabin, the officer nervously following.

  “Sir, they are Irish; it’s a wake.”

  “I feel I should make my condolences,” he replied. Slowly moving back the blanket that served as a door, he bent low and stepped in.

  It was indeed a wake. They had yet to bury the boy, his still form stretched out on a bunk, gray face exposed. A man he assumed was the boy’s father sat on the bunk, holding the hand of his dead son. The cabin was packed with men so that it was actually warm within. Those sitting stood when they saw who was standing in the doorway. The father looked up at him but didn’t stir.

  “Please, all remain at ease,” he offered, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed for intruding thus.

  “I was just told of your tragic loss, sir,” he said to the father, “and may I offer my condolences.”

  The man did not speak, just gazing at him.

  “I am so sorry…” His voice trailed off. What could he offer here? A speech of encouragement? Hollow-sounding words that the youth had died for a gallant cause. The boy’s feet were sticking out from under the blanket, black from frostbite and rot.

  If anything, he wished at this instant he could grab every corrupt contractor, every member of Congress who dawdled with committee reports, and bring them before this corpse and the father and let them explain.

  “I am so sorry,” was all he could say yet again, and he started to back out of the cabin.

  “Tell that to my wife, sir,” the old man snapped, looking at him coldly. “Will you go to her and explain why our youngest died like this?”

  He did not reply, as there was no reply to give. He stepped back into the storm, the officer following.

  “I apologize, sir,” the officer offered.

  “None needed, sir. After the boy is buried, give the father, or one of his sons, a furlough home so they can break the news to that boy’s mother.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He sighed, back turned to the storm.

  “Sir,” the officer ventured, nervously clearing his throat.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a rumor that we are on half-rations again come tomorrow.”

  It was true. If this storm did not abate, freezing their wagons and Wayne’s foragers in place, it would be half-rations tomorrow and then either no rations or quarter-rations the day after.

  “Pray the storm relents and General Wayne can bring in supplies,” he sighed, and walked off.

  He felt he should turn back—Martha was waiting—but he continued on, shaken by the gaze of the mourning father. He passed more regimental encampments, barely noticed, like a ghost drifting by. In one street a bonfire
was burning—a waste of firewood, but there seemed to be some sort of entertainment, a fifer and drummer playing a tune, some of the men and women of the camp dancing in spite of the storm. In another street there was an altercation, and he was tempted to step in. Two men exchanged blows until he saw that it was a fair “soldier’s fight.” Men were ringed about, cheering the two on, both men stripped to the waist, a sergeant moving in to break them apart, at one point shouting, “No kicking, wrestling, or gouging—fists only.” He watched for a minute until one of the pugilists, the bigger of the two, was knocked flat, the sergeant jumping between them, shouting that the fight was over and that the two were to shake hands.

  He smiled when he overheard that the two were brothers and the brawl a nearly weekly affair between them. Still, he was a bit surprised when the man who was knocked nearly cold stood up, the sergeant helping him don a captain’s jacket, his brother in the ragged uniform of a private.

  He crossed an open field, the parade ground, rarely used, and then saw ahead the low, squat cabins of one of the hospitals. He got up the nerve to step into the nearest. Soldier or not, the stench was near to overpowering. The room was dimly lit by the fireplaces blazing at each end. Bunks were filled to overflowing, the bunks pegged four high above each other from nearly the floor to the ceiling. A woman was carefully feeding broth to a young soldier whom she was holding as if he were a child. Another woman sat by the fire, reading aloud from a Bible. At first no one noticed his presence. It was hard to breathe, and he just stood for a moment, then caught the eye of a soldier in a bunk at shoulder height to him.

  “General Washington?” the man whispered.

  He nodded and stepped to his side.

  “You will soon be well,” Washington offered, again feeling awkward, his words lame, for the man was little better than a skeleton. From the stench it was obvious he was in the final throes of the flux, body wasting away.

  The man extended a hand, which Washington grasped. The man tried to force a smile as if to reassure him.

  “You will soon be well,” Washington whispered.

  The woman reading the Bible had stopped and looked at him. Standing, she came to his side.

  “Now, Vincent, the general is right. Rest easy.”

  The soldier looked to the woman but this time shook his head, tears welling up.

  “You wrote my letter home,” he whispered.

  She nodded in reply.

  He let go of the general and rolled on to his side, facing the wall.

  She pulled the single filthy blanket up over his bony shoulders.

  Feeling as if he was an intruder, Washington went out the door, and the woman followed.

  “Sir?”

  He turned to face her.

  “The rumor about food, are we out again?”

  “For the hospitals, no,” he replied and at least this was true.

  “But medicines? We have nothing.”

  “I know. I am trying.”

  She leaned forward and began to cough. A deep rasping wheeze with each indrawn breath.

  “You are sick, you should not be out here,” he paused, “or in there, either.”

  “What else am I to do then?” she announced, forcing a smile.

  “I could order you to rest.”

  “Thee can order as thee pleases, sir. And I shall disobey. This is the duty God gave me.”

  He stared at her intently, bracing her as she was seized by more shuddering coughs.

  She stopped, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, and in the darkness the splotches of blood looked black.

  “I should go back. Vincent has not much longer. I should be with him.”

  He nodded, squeezing her shoulders.

  “God be with—with thee,” he hesitated, adopting the Quaker manner of speech.

  “And with thee.”

  She returned to the hospital hut. He stood alone for long minutes in the storm.

  He walked alone thus most every night. It was the time to gauge the mood, the sense of his camp, his army. The suffering was beyond any he had ever imagined this war would bring. At times he felt it would indeed break him.

  And how would General Gates handle all of this if he took command? The thought haunted him. He had long drilled himself since early manhood to think not of himself. A gentleman, a leader, did not bring personal considerations into such equations. But these men and now these women?

  One ill-chosen response, one flash of temper, of self-serving behavior or blame-casting, one day of failed leadership could shatter the fragile core that held this army together. And in humility he knew that he was the center, the core of what was holding this last fragment of an army, of a Revolution, together.

  He turned and started the long walk back to his headquarters, facing into the eye of the storm, hat now pulled low, not to conceal but to keep the icy gusts out of his eyes.

  At last gaining the gate, he paused for a moment to catch his breath. That was disturbing. He was no longer a man of twenty, he was going into his forty-seventh year—by the old calendar it was only a few days off. He at last opened the gate and approached the house. The same sentry was in place. Not seeing his general approach, Peter had rested his musket against the doorsill and was vigorously beating his arms around his chest and stamping his feet. At the sight of Washington’s approach he quickly grabbed his musket and came to attention.

  “Your relief should be along any minute, Private,” Washington offered.

  “ ’Tis a bitter night.”

  “Sorry, sir,” he offered.

  “You are doing your duty well, son. I hope a warm fire awaits you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He went to open the door for the general, but Washington took the knob himself and opened it, then quickly closed the door behind him as an icy gust blasted around him.

  “George?”

  He was delighted to see Martha standing on the staircase, wrapped in a heavy blanket.

  She hurried down to help him off with his wet cape and hat, hanging them up. His staff, in the kitchen, stood up, ready for orders.

  “Any news while I was away?”

  “No, sir. Nothing.”

  “Fine, then, gentlemen,” he hesitated, looking over at Martha for a moment.

  “Time to retire, then.”

  He felt a bit self-conscious going up the stairs with Martha following. It felt strange to have her in the bedroom, where he had slept alone for over a month. She had set out a pitcher of warm water for him to wash his hands and face. He thought of the hand he had grasped of the man dying of the flux, wondering if Dr. Rush’s theory might be true that such contagions could be spread by touch and just by breathing the same air.

  He scrubbed his hands thoroughly with the rough cake of lye soap. Martha helped him doff his uniform jacket and vest and then insisted upon helping him with his ice-caked boots, setting them close, but not too close, to the crackling fireplace.

  He felt suddenly shy as he removed his breeches, which she took as well and hung up by the fireplace while he slipped between the covers. Merciful heaven, the sheets were warmed by several bricks she had set in the fire earlier, fished out, and wrapped in towels. It was a comfort Billy Lee never thought of.

  She blew out the candle by the washbasin, dropped the blanket she had wrapped around herself, and settled in by his side.

  It had been far more than half a year since they had been alone. And yet now? This moment?

  He thought of the Quaker woman, the icy chill of the hospital cabin, barely touched by the fires within, the father with his dead son, the rough-hewn cabins filled with men shivering on this cold winter night, knowing their stomachs would be empty again come morning.

  She snuggled in by his side, his arm around her.

  “My dear,” he finally sighed, “I need to think awhile,” he whispered, embarrassed.

  “I understand,” she sighed, drew closer to his side, and then drifted to sleep.

  Long after she
had gone to sleep, he stared up, the flicker of light from the fireplace dancing on the ceiling while outside the cold wind rattled the shutters, windowpanes frosted over. And thus he would still be awake with the first light of dawn, lost in thought and prayer.

  Chapter Ten

  Philadelphia

  February 12, 1778

  It was a glorious Sunday afternoon, the weather almost springlike, with a warming breeze wafting over the city from the southwest, such a welcome change from the storms of the week before. The dark skies of the previous days were gone, replaced with a deep, warm blue, more like an April morning than a winter day with spring still far off.

  Most of the officers of the army were engaging in the weekly ritual of the Sunday promenade along the Philadelphia dockside, joined by those citizens of substance who wished to show their loyalty and comradeship with the higher ranks in service to the Crown.

  But Allen van Dorn was unaware of those strolling by, other than keeping a wary eye out for superior rank and offering the proper salute, which could be tiresome since it seemed on this day that nearly every officer, British and Hessian, was out and about, enjoying the fine break in the weather. He was lost in thought, pausing to gaze up at the forest of masts of the dozens of ships that lined the wharf, some of them heavy oaken frigates, along with brigs and sloops of the Royal Navy. Beside them were transports, supply ships, merchantmen, and even a few whalers, their crews Loyalists. Having fled their home ports in rebel New England, they were now based here.

  The excitement of an hour or so ago had caused a crowd to gather as a fast packet from London, bearing the latest dispatches for the army, had tied off at the Market Street wharf. Word was already sweeping the streets about the news from France. He had stood at the edge of the crowd. Far too many officers of superior rank were pressed up to the gangplank demanding that their personal letters and packages were to be handed over before all the others. Near fights and challenges of duels had erupted when some young earl took umbrage that a mere colonel of infantry had pushed ahead of him.

  “Lieutenant van Dorn! I say, van Dorn!”

  He turned and saw that it was Captain André, with both Peggy Shippen and Elizabeth Risher in tow. He felt a thrill of delight, not having seen Miss Risher since the party. André had chided him more than once: He had by all reports repeatedly shown bravery on the battlefield, thus why not venture a frontal assault, go to her dwelling, and see what came of it, or at the very least pen a note to thus convey his interest.