That was why he was here, and it was something he said little about to Gates, so intent was the man on his swarms of militia who would turn out for a month or two of service, win the war, and go home. That was barely time to teach just a company of men how to load and fire in unison, a technique essential if ever the British were to be met in an open-field fight.
A messenger returned, telling them they could proceed. As they approached the encampment area, a gentle breeze arrived, carrying with it the promise of a developing storm from the east, bearing with it the smoke from hundreds of fires. The first scent of it was pleasant, as it would be for any soldier: wood fires burning at midday as dinners were prepared. But other scents were on the wind as well, and even though he was a well-seasoned soldier, he still wrinkled his nose as they drew closer. The place smelled unhealthy, and he soon saw why as they trotted past a burial ground. Hundreds of mounds of earth dotted the hillside. Some were individual graves, but there were also stretches of ground of thirty feet or more that looked like filled-in trenches, with a couple of dozen wooden boards or slabs of wood poked in atop them. Sickeningly, it was obvious that more than a few of the graves had not been dug all that deep, for dogs and wild pigs had obviously been rooting into them, and thus the stench of decay hung in the air.
A party of men was standing around an open trench, several men standing in the open grave dug not much more than chest-deep, while corpses were being off-loaded from a two-wheeled wagon, carted over, and then handed to those in the grave, who unceremoniously put the bodies down and reached for others. No coffins, not even a winding cloth or blanket was there to cover the dead. The faces of the dead were locked in the rictus of their final struggles, some pale, emaciated, some pox-covered, others swollen and distorted. One of them hauled out was missing both his feet, the stumps from the amputation obviously fresh, blood dripping from the body.
Behind him, he heard L’Enfant gag and then vomit.
Some of the burial detail looked over at them, a couple nudging each other at the sight of the splendid Frenchie vomiting, joined a moment later by two more of his cavalcade.
“This is war, too, gentlemen,” von Steuben announced in French. “Get used to it, by God. Now show respect. They are watching us.”
An officer with the burial detail shouted for his men to continue their work but shot a dark glance at von Steuben, who remained motionless and then solemnly took off his hat, lowered his head, and put his hat to his heart, remaining thus until the last of the dead were pulled from the wagon.
A minister offered a quick prayer, and a ragged volley of but three muskets was fired over the open trench and the interment of nearly thirty men. The daily total of dead from the hospitals was finished. Those gathered around picked up shovels to fill the mass grave. Slightly upslope, others were already laboring on the trench for the next day’s business.
He put his hat back on.
“Ride on and look straight ahead,” he hissed.
Those following him did as ordered. L’Enfant came up to his side.
“I’m sorry sir,” the boy gasped, “the smell, and the sight of that poor man.”
“If you wish to be a soldier, lad, you’d best acquire the stomach for it. After Minden we buried five thousand like that.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied weakly.
“First time you’ve seen something like that, son?”
“Yes, sir,” he gasped and von Steuben was afraid the boy would vomit again.
“Think of something else. Breathe deeply, the air here is good now,” he whispered, “don’t shame yourself in front of them.”
A few battles or months in camp would harden him, or kill him, but he knew the talk around campfires tonight would be about how the new foreigners vomited. It would not reflect well on him.
Past the graveyard, they rode alongside half a dozen log huts, each nearly thirty feet long, with wattle and daub chimneys at both ends. The blanket covering into the one nearest the road was open, but he didn’t need to be told it was a hospital area. Dozens of pale, sickly men were outside, leaning against the south wall to soak up the feeble heat of the early afternoon sun. Several rested on crutches, minus a foot or leg. No one spoke as they rode by. Rough-hewn beds of planks covered by some fir branches were on the ground, men huddled on them. All the nurses were women. One—well dressed, middle-aged, gray hair tucked up under a “plain cap,” wool cape over her shoulders—looked like a woman of some distinction. She sat on a camp chair, holding a book that looked to be a Bible and reading aloud in English, more than a few of the sick turned to her, listening attentively. She caught his gaze for a moment, and he bowed from the saddle and she returned the salute with a nod of her head, but did not interrupt her reading.
The hospital area left behind, the party continued up the slope, no one speaking. The journey of over a month was nearing its end, but there was little enthusiasm in his group, the young French officers sobered by what they saw. Even his hound Azor stayed close to his side, obviously disconcerted by the alien scents and sights.
The low crest ahead was cut by earthworks, very rudimentary works, a sagging line of tossed-up earth and cut sod. L’Enfant sat up in his saddle to scan them.
“Amateur works,” he sighed. “No revetments, no bombproofs, no secondary line nor cheveux-de-frise, it is pathetic.”
“This is a new army,” von Steuben announced, “we are here to teach, not to criticize. For right now, remember we are their guests.”
He looked over at the young Frenchman, who was obviously filled with disappointment and more than a little disgust at what he was seeing.
Von Steuben forced a laugh.
“When I was in the service of the czarina, you should have seen me among the Cossacks loyal to the empress! Try to teach them how to dig a fortification? This will be easy, lad.”
L’Enfant did not look encouraged.
“It is either that or you can ride twenty miles to the south and see what the British might offer.” Now his voice was cold.
L’Enfant looked at him, a bit startled, but his cold gaze stilled any reply.
He turned and looked back at the rest of his companions.
“Remember, my friends, we have crossed an ocean and ridden our backsides raw this last month to come here. Here. This is where God has called us, and we might now say God help us all. But this is our lot. You do not win allies by berating them and showing them their shortcomings. You win them by offering your hand. It is either that or I suggest you turn about now and ride back to York and play some more politics.
“Now, do we understand each other? All of us?” And he said the last words in German, his servant Vogel quickly translating.
No one spoke.
“I will have no complaining. No saying they are doing everything wrong, because, by God, they have indeed stood against the British and my cousins from Hesse for two years and are still in the field. Do we understand each other?”
This time there were nods of reply.
“Good, then,” and he turned, pointing to the crest of the hill where a group of horsemen awaited.
“I think, gentlemen, that is our new commanding officer. If now or in the future any of you fail to show the utmost deference to him and those ranked above us, I will break you from my staff.
“Do we understand each other?” And again he lapsed into German.
“Yes, sir,” was the universal response.
“Good, then, my children, let us go and meet our new leader.” He spurred his tired mount, who on the mud-caked road could barely manage to break into a canter.
A lone officer broke away from the group and came down to meet them, reining in and stiffening at their approach.
“Baron von Steuben?”
He smiled and nodded, the officer greeting him stiffening even more.
“Monsieur, I am honored,” he replied in French. “I am the Marquis de Lafayette, and we, the entire army, are delighted with your arrival. My General Washington awaits
you.”
He was startled for an instant by the obvious youth of the officer—the lad could not be more than twenty at most, and yet his name was known on both sides of the Atlantic.
His staff, excited to meet a fellow countryman, broke into their usual flourishes of introduction while he simply removed his hat in salute, a gesture that Lafayette immediately returned with all the proper panache of a well-born nobleman. It was indeed strange for a brief instant. I fought against the French for how many years? he wondered. In the last war the British were our allies. Now I am four thousand miles from home, a stripling of a French marquis greeting me in this new adventure against my former allies.
Such is war.
The marquis fell in by his side, chatting amiably, inquiring as to his health and the comfort of his journey as they rode the last hundred yards up the slope.
It was easy enough to pick out the man he had crossed an ocean and ridden half a continent to meet. As described to him, he was half a head taller than any who were around him, strong-shouldered, features calm and composed, though heavily scarred by the smallpox. Uniform well tailored, but not anywhere near as finely trimmed as Lafayette’s or even that of his new aide-de-camp, L’Enfant. There was a dignity to him, though, that bespoke a man who was aware of the role he must play before others as their commander, and he immediately liked that. With the warmth of this almost springlike afternoon, he did not wear a cape. His blue and buff uniform was clean, though obviously threadbare from time in the field. He kept his mount well, a horse of superior breeding. Behind him was a black servant, well dressed in brown broadcloth and astride a horse nearly the equal of the general’s. That must be the legendary Billy Lee, he thought. Half a dozen other officers were arrayed behind him.
He slowed as he approached and came to a respectful halt, removing his hat, as did the rest of his staff, as Lafayette offered the formal introductions. Washington and Billy Lee he had figured out, the others were not obvious. He would have to rely on Vogel later to tell him again which man was this Anthony Wayne, and Greene, and Stirling, and in turn their various aides and followers.
The uniforms were a hodgepodge, as if every man had decided for himself how he should dress for a war, a situation that could be most confusing in the smoke of battle, for even with Cossack chieftains and Turks, their rankings could be told by the richness of their dress and the trappings of their horses.
But his first impression was a strong one. Washington struck him at first nod as a leader, the deference shown by the young marquis obvious.
A small honor guard was drawn up on the side of the muddy road, and at the conclusion of introductions, the company came to attention and presented arms.
He winced inwardly. If this was their best, then heaven help me, he thought, though his features remained fixed. No two men wore exactly the same uniform jacket. One was wearing a long, drab civilian cloak that was mud-splattered. At least they all appeared to be wearing shoes or boots. Several fifers and a drummer broke into a piece he could now identify—“Yankee Doodle”—and all looked appropriately solemn as it was played, though he could not help but remember the rather ribald verse that had been taught to him by Vogel while they were still in Boston. At the conclusion, seven of the honor guard stepped forward and offered a somewhat decent volley, though one of the muskets misfired, the sergeant leading the men obviously displeased. He suppressed a smile, for any good Prussian sergeant would most certainly make the rest of the day difficult for the young malefactor who had not checked his pan and flint before marching out.
The ceremony finished, General Washington turned to face von Steuben.
“I am pleased to see you, sir,” Washington said in English, Lafayette translating to French. “I trust your journey was easy and your health is good?”
“It is an honor to at last meet you, sir, and yes, the journey was interesting and my health is good. I thank you for inquiring. We are glad to be here and look forward to serving under you.”
There was a momentary pause and Washington gestured for him to fall in by his side.
“Let’s ride together as we talk,” Washington announced. “I understand you speak French, and I hope you will accept the services of my friend General Lafayette to help us speak together.”
A respectful gesture, von Steuben thought. Etiquette allowed for a man to request his own interpreter, and Washington indirectly was making that offer.
He nodded his approval, and Lafayette fell in to von Steuben’s left, so as not to be between him and Washington as they rode. Behind them, a couple of dozen paces back, the rest of his staff fell in alongside those of Washington’s staff who had ridden out to meet them, and he could hear conversations start, some in French, with Vogel laboring to go directly from English to German and back again.
The three up front rode on in silence for a moment, Washington letting him take in the view of the encampment site. Clusters of rough-hewn huts lined up in company streets were obviously grouped by regiments and brigades. Not much work appeared to be going on. Some were already standing around cooking fires at each regiment where a hog or sheep had already been slaughtered and was being butchered for the cook pot. The fare did not look all that good. The men waiting seemed to be doing so with some anxiety, as if rations were short and they wanted to insure their fair share of the day’s vittles. A cattle stall with a dozen animals within was well guarded by a detail of half a dozen men, the animals a miserable-looking lot, with little flesh on their bones. There was, however, the scent of fresh bread baking, and they rode past a large hut, the size of a small warehouse, a dozen brick chimneys lining one wall. A wagon came out the far end of the building, steaming loaves of bread piled high. A guard detachment kept careful watch as the wagon slowly moved along a muddy track toward the center of the camp.
“I trust you ate well while with Congress in York?” Washington asked, breaking the silence, his gaze still fixed on the wagonload of bread.
“Yes, sir, the food was more than adequate.”
“Today my men are lucky. Nearly a pound of meat per man will be doled out this afternoon, and a fresh loaf for every two men. For tomorrow a dozen cattle are all we have so far, and just enough bread for one loaf for three. I had asked to set aside half a dozen cows to provide milk for the sick but fear they must be slaughtered as well.”
He now looked over at von Steuben.
“I have heard of your difficulties while traveling here, sir.”
Washington nodded.
“I am reduced to foraging under my own authority,” Washington announced. “At best we have reserves of but three to four days of food on hand. Today we are down to two, though I am promised a delivery of fifty head of cattle from Reading by this time tomorrow. That and what General Wayne’s men will bring in by the end of the day.”
Von Steuben did not reply.
“What authority did Congress give to you, sir?” Washington now asked.
“My servant is carrying my papers,” von Steuben replied. “I will present them now if you wish,” and he motioned as if to turn back.
Washington shook his head.
“In your own words sir.”
“Authority here, sir?” he asked diplomatically, “or as given by Congress?”
“Congress first.”
“I am under orders to General Gates, reporting through General Conway.”
“And here?”
Von Steuben gazed intently at the man. Everything he had heard before arriving at York seemed to bear witness. “Sir, whatever task you wish to assign to me, without rank, as a volunteer I will accept from your hand.”
Washington looked at him but, said nothing. “All I have asked all along,” von Steuben continued, “is that my staff receive some form of commission, captains even, to defray their personal expenses. As for myself, sir, I am at your disposal without expectation of rank or pay other than to defray expenses incurred. If I prove worthy of your trust you may decide later how to employ me.”
“And your reports to Generals Conway and Gates.”
“Sir, I am here now under your direct command.” He drew a deep breath. “Any reports filed, as I was trained long ago, will go through proper channels first, which means you as direct commander in the field.”
Taking that in, Washington finally smiled. “This is different,” Washington said in English to Lafayette, who did not interpret, the young Frenchman smiling and nodding in reply.
“I understand you are a baron and served on the general staff of Frederick the Great?”
He looked straight at Washington and simply nodded.
“Your duties while with Frederick?”
“I have come through the ranks. In the German armies an officer cadet often first serves a time with the enlisted ranks in order to better understand how to lead them. I commanded a company and a regiment in battle during the Seven Years, was decorated for valor by the Great Frederick and promoted to his staff. I was captured near the end of the war by the Russians, was treated well by them, served as an advisor to their Czar Peter when the war ended and he switched alliances to Prussia, and was later employed by the Czarina Catherine in the Ukraine and against the Turks.”
What he said was all true; what he left out, he did so without a blush. There was no sense in dwelling on some of the “difficulties” that now drove him to this distant place. An unemployed career officer at this stage in life should be expecting a comfortable billet as a colonel of a garrison or even a general on staff.
They rode on in silence for a moment. As they did so they passed a parade field where a regiment of several hundred was drawn up in two ragged lines. Von Steuben slowed to watch, Washington and Lafayette by his sides.
The colonel of the regiment stood with his back to the three and apparently was delivering a sound chewing-out. Some of the men were leaning on the muzzles of their muskets, though as they realized that Washington and others were watching, they started to come to attention, some shouldering their muskets, others awkwardly just holding them in front, butt still on the ground.
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 31