Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  He had not pursued either suggestion. Philadelphia was a city seething with intrigue, and though he trusted Miss Risher, he knew her parents as well. How would they react to his attempt? They would never see him as the proper sort of suitor. If victory in the end should go to the English side, then without doubt they would hope to make a proper arrangement with a proper officer, and not a Loyalist from a provincial village. And if the British side should eventually lose? Many parents with an eye toward the future were keeping watchful eyes on their daughters, cautioning them to wait until the campaign was resolved before extending any kind of serious attention. Besides, they did know his family, the fate of his brother Jonathan and the role he had played at Trenton, and were the type that would spread rumors about his own loyalty even though General Grey had dismissed such speculation when he put him on his staff. Of course, part of the reason Grey had taken him on was his intimate knowledge of the land and its people, from Trenton to the Jersey coast, which he had often traveled over with his father on family business. And that, as well, would stand against him with the Rishers, for he was the son of a tanner.

  But at this moment, he pushed those concerns aside as André approached, his normally sanguine features aglow with delight.

  “They came!” André announced, holding up a sheaf of papers.

  Others were turning to watch as André came up to Allen and, as if presenting an award, handed the package over to him.

  The package and wrapping were torn open, and within…within was a treasure.

  He scanned the first sheet—it was the music by Mozart!

  Scanning the lines, he translated the notations, in his mind, to the sound of Franklin’s glass harmonica.

  Good heavens, though, it was most difficult—on the second page, a fugue ran for a dozen stanzas that required all ten fingers. At most he had mastered four fingers, a few brief moments of chords using six fingers…but this would demand quarter-and eighth-notes, with all ten fingers at play.

  On a harpsichord he might have been able to do it with a little practice, but on Franklin’s magical instrument?

  And yet, when he tore his gaze from the pages and looked up at André, and particularly Miss Risher by his left side and Miss Shippen at his right, what could he do?

  “Give me a few days,” he announced, trying to force a smile of confidence.

  That was something he had quickly learned by serving in this army. At times skill and true ability did not count in the slightest. It was the front, the bluster, the forward show that counted for so much here. André, though still a mere captain, exuded that. He had a certain flair, a self-confident tone of voice and manner that equaled and could trump that of any nineteen-year-old earl or duke demanding command of a brigade because of his lineage and connections to the king.

  “So, Lieutenant, think you can master some Mozart in time for our party come Saturday?”

  Considering his musings about having the right flair, he looked back down at the incredibly complex sheet of music, studied it for a moment, then nodded gravely.

  “Consider it done, sir,” he replied. It would mean committing himself to long nights of practice without sleep in order to be able to give a halfway decent performance and not embarrass himself or André. At least with the harmonica, unlike the harpsichord, volume could be controlled by applying just the lightest tough to the rotating glass, so that he did not have to fear awakening the staff and General Grey over the next week.

  “Splendid, my good fellow!” André cried, clapping him on the back while taking the precious sheet music back.

  “Amazing talent, this Mozart,” he waxed enthusiastically, holding up the package. “I scanned it briefly, letting it play in my heart—and to think this composer is younger than us! To have such talent.”

  “But would you trade it for the ability to command a regiment in the field?” Miss Shippen asked, smiling boldly.

  André looked over at her.

  “Which would you prefer?” he asked.

  She smiled coyly.

  “I think…” She paused, and the display caught Allen in the wrong way. It was obvious she was playing the flirt. “I think a soldier is more to my liking. These musicians are such flighty types, almost as bad as writers. Did I tell you I actually was forced to eat dinner once with that detestable Thomas Paine?”

  “Well,” André offered, “he does have a certain talent with the quill, even if it is claptrap and treasonous rot that he writes.”

  Allen said nothing. Her mention of Tom Paine struck him like a bolt. The memory of his brother Jonathan, clutching the waterlogged, tattered pamphlet as he died.

  “Paine can go to hell. Thousands have died because of what he wrote and he is still alive,” Allen snapped.

  André looked at him and smiled, Peggy laughed at his exclamation, but Elizabeth was just silent.

  “Oh, enough of him, he’ll be dead from drink within the year, I hear,” André announced, stepping away from the group and motioning for them to follow along, leaving the growing, clamoring crowd around the packet ship behind.

  They stepped around a gang of laborers off-loading a light sloop with steeply raked masts, André explaining that it was a prize ship, yet another French smuggler captured with a load of powder, a dozen fieldpieces, and other assorted accoutrements for the rebels.

  “Captain of the frigate that took her, the Hermes, is a cousin twice removed. His share of the prize money should fetch a thousand pounds or more, I hear.” He sighed. “Perhaps I should have gone for the navy after all.”

  “And missed wintering here with us in Philadelphia?” Peggy asked.

  He pressed her hand in closer against his side.

  “Of course I chose to serve where my king might need me,” he replied, and Allen looked over at him, seeing the touch of a sarcastic look as he gazed back at the booty being off-loaded.

  A man with proper connections could, of course, buy his way into command even of a regiment, but far more sought after were high postings with the Royal Navy, for there indeed was the prize money. But that took, in turn, money and proper connections, unless one was willing to enter as a mere midshipman and endure years of danger and hardship in order to rise. André had neither the time for one nor the money to purchase position other than where he now was.

  There was, of course, the prospect of quick promotion offered by war, as voiced in a favorite regimental drinking toast, “to a long war or a bloody plague.”

  André gazed back longingly at the captured sloop and then pulled his attention away.

  “So, have we all heard the news?”

  “Only a few odd bits,” Elizabeth replied. “Everyone was so excited and jostling about.”

  “And you and Miss Shippen saw that jostling crowd as your opportunity to slip off from your chaperones,” André retorted with a grin.

  “Something like that,” she replied, smiling.

  “And thus I found them,” André announced. “Two fair maidens, tossed upon a lonely sea of rude majors, gouty colonels, and coarse civilians clamoring for news. I of course rescued them. And having spied you out earlier, upon receiving my long anticipated package I thought it might interest you.” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a folded sheet of paper. “The London Gazette, dated the fourth of January this year,” he announced. They slowed as André held the paper up and turned so that the warm afternoon sun was over his shoulder. He scanned the paper for a moment as if withholding some great secret, Peggy leaning up on his arm to catch a glimpse.

  “Oh, the usual deaths of barons and kings, some sort of trouble in the Maldives and India, the usual things. Oh heavens, a plague reported in Persia. I do see that Coleridge and Sons are offering the finest silks newly arrived from China…” His voice trailed off as he played out his game of indifference. “Hmm, no really fresh news here.”

  His features, so light a moment before, finally turned grim as he scanned what everyone on the street was already talking about.

&n
bsp; “Though there is something about Saratoga.”

  “That’s the first report out of London, isn’t it?” Allen asked.

  André looked over at him, no mirth in his eyes, and nodded gravely.

  “Poor Johnny. He will never live it down. A good man, Burgoyne. The blame is not all his by any stretch.”

  Allen found himself looking around, hoping that no one had heard such a cavalier response. Few in this army would dare to put the blame for the disaster anywhere other than at the feet of General “Johnny” Burgoyne. Though all of them, including General Grey, were struck incredulous back in August when the army had boarded ship in New York, not to sail up the Hudson to meet Burgoyne in a grand pincer movement that would have shattered the rebels’ northern army and sealed off New England, but instead to sail in the opposite direction to seize Philadelphia.

  The campaign south instead of north had struck many a young officer as absurd: sailing all the way down to the Virginia Capes and the entry into the Chesapeake Bay, then turning north to sail all the way back to near Wilmington. It had taken nearly a month, while all knew that Burgoyne, in the northern wilderness, fully assumed that the Howe brothers would appear any day, drive off the bedeviling enemy surrounding him, and achieve a stunning victory.

  Instead, their action, though giving them Philadelphia, had given the rebels Saratoga.

  André scanned the report, lips pressed tight, features suddenly grim.

  “Parliament is demanding an investigation. Report that Whigs in Dublin celebrated by dancing in the street and hanging Burgoyne in effigy, damn them.”

  He sighed and shook his head.

  “What of France?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied rather absently, all merriment of but moments before gone.

  “A report that at Versailles a grand illumination was ordered by the king, with fireworks and numerous salutes fired in honor of the rebel victory and its glorious leaders.”

  He scanned further.

  “Our ambassador to the court of Louis XVI has returned to London in protest. The correspondent reports that the king has formally acknowledged the presence of Mr. Franklin at a royal reception,” he paused, “and that a recognition of the rebel government and with it a declaration of war are expected within the month.”

  Muttering a foul curse, he crumpled up the precious paper and threw it down on the pavement. A street urchin swept in and snatched it before it hit the cobblestones and was off with his prize, which would surely fetch sixpence or even a shilling this day.

  André turned away from his friends and walked down to the edge of the street and docks, stopping at last to look out over the Delaware, which was tossed by whitecaps from the southwesterly breeze. His arms were folded across his breast, head lowered.

  Peggy went up and slipped her hand back under his arm. He looked down at her and forced a smile.

  “My apologies, my dear,” he said, and looked back at Allen and Elizabeth.

  “Apologies, most ungentlemanly of me.”

  “Understandable,” Allen replied.

  “It could have been ending by now,” André said, voice filled with bitterness. “We should be back in New York at this very moment, having sallied northward to first relieve Burgoyne, seize the Hudson Highlands, and then, with Burgoyne’s army swelling our ranks, the northern rebels shattered, New England would be entirely cut off. Then time enough in the spring to march on this city, take it, and end the war before summer.”

  Yet again Allen looked around cautiously, nervous that someone might overhear his friend’s lament. It was, of course, the complaint of nearly all when sitting together late at night over a bottle of brandy and cards, but most undiplomatic to be voiced out on the streets of the former rebel capital on a Sunday afternoon. If one of Howe’s staff overheard and marked André down, any hope of advancement for him would be shattered, even if his assessment was indeed true.

  “Not now, sir,” Allen whispered. “What is done is done. We’ll talk of it later.”

  “He’s right,” Elizabeth offered. “Please sir, moderation is best at this moment for you.”

  André looked over at her and smiled.

  “Thank you, Miss Risher. Good counsel, even from someone who I suspect is a rebel at heart.”

  Her features did not change in the slightest, nor did she reply.

  He laughed good-naturedly.

  “Please do not take offense, Miss Risher.”

  “Well, I am certainly not one of such persuasion,” Peggy announced.

  He looked down at her and smiled.

  “Oh, of course not, my dear.”

  André looked over at Allen.

  “What do you think?”

  “Not my place to say, sir.”

  “Allen—it is Allen, isn’t it? At least last time we talked I recall that being your given name,” he announced with a smile.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And out here it is John, so drop the sir.”

  Allen did not reply.

  “What do you think, Allen?”

  “Do you really want my opinion?”

  “I wouldn’t ask otherwise. Let’s call this our little conspiracy, Allen.” As he spoke, he motioned for him to draw a little closer.

  Allen stepped closer and noted, for the first time, that there was the hint of brandy on André’s breath. Was he drunk? If not, he was without doubt being indiscreet.

  “It is hard news.”

  “Oh, really? War with France, it is inevitable. Every twenty years or so we have a war with France, and maybe once every hundred years we ally with them for a time. So no shock there. Might as well have at it again—after all, we are soldiers and war is our trade. So business will be good come summer.”

  Allen nodded. “It troubles me that my own people would ally with the very enemy we fought less than twenty years ago.”

  “Political necessity. But then again you Americans seem to favor some notion of war being a moral question rather than one of political reality. So it might be distasteful to some to ally with a former enemy against your fellow Englishmen, but then again, such is war.”

  Allen could detect the bitterness in André’s comment.

  “I want this absurdity to be over with, Allen. Why your Washington and company hang on in Valley Forge is beyond me. You’ve seen the reports—as have I, from our scouts and spies. They are dying by the score every day. They only built the last of their so-called shelters within the last week. They sustain themselves on a ration a day that we would sneer at and throw into the gutter for the dogs. When will they just give up?”

  “When they are beaten and not before,” Allen said quietly.

  André turned to look at him, and now there was a glint of anger in his eyes. “

  When? Poor Johnny and his men, but one small part of our armies. Yes, I denounce this move here rather than going to his aid, but, good God, man, we’ve beaten Washington in every battle except for a few minor skirmishes a year ago.”

  Minor skirmishes. He looked over at Elizabeth. She said nothing, but he sensed that she was thinking of Jonathan and his death.

  “You want my honest opinion, sir,” Allen asked. “It’s John, remember, Allen. For the moment it is John.”

  “Then I will tell you.”

  He hesitated, looking at Peggy, wondering for an instant if this night she would share every word she heard. He could see curiosity in Elizabeth as to where he truly stood.

  “You will have to put this Revolution in the grave,” Allen said. “No more coy games of march and countermarch and then settling in here for the winter and hoping that the rebels will just melt away.”

  Frustrated, he looked back to the southwest, into the warming breeze. Out in the countryside this breeze was wiping away the last of the snow of the week before. Another day or two and the roads would be dry enough to support light infantry; a day or two after that, the entire army.

  “One forced march could put us in front of Valley Forge. T
hen if it snows, rains, freezes, whatever God sends, we are in front of Valley Forge. If need be we endure what they are enduring within sight of their lines. If the weather turns foul we endure it as they have endured it. Then the first fair day after that we sweep them away in one hard push and end this damn war rather than sit out the winter here swelling our bellies, drinking ourselves senseless, and playing our games.”

  André shook his head and laughed softly.

  “My, you certainly do sound like a Frederick, or even a czarina.”

  “I had an uncle who fought on the frontier in the last war, not like my father, who just sat in a garrison for a few months, but out on the edge of the Ohio Valley. He was out there for two years. I’ve heard Washington did the same. They learned from it, and if I dare to say it, if my uncle was still alive today, he would be at Valley Forge and laughing at us.”

  “As your brother would be if still alive?” André replied, and Allen stiffened.

  He was not sure how to react, and André, realizing he had overstepped, extended a hand in a calming gesture.

  “Of course General Grey knows. He shared it with me because he knows you and I are friends, but I swear to you, upon my oath, that no others with the brigade know. It is safe with us.”

  Allen still could not reply.

  “I meant no insult, though your words just now were harsh.”

  “They are how I see it. You asked me, sir, and I am telling you. Do not underestimate the capacity of the rebels for suffering. They will not melt away with the next winter storm. If anything, that will toughen them and make us weaker.”

  André shook his head.

  “You give too much credence to this Washington and his rabble.”

  “I saw them, sir. I was their prisoner, as were you. You know how tough they can be.”

  André shook his head, and Allen could sense he had hit a raw nerve. “Rabble, I tell you,” André said coldly. “My friend, do not be insulted by what I say. There is a profound difference between you and me.”