He prayed it was north, though if so, he would have to race back to where Washington was camped, fifteen miles away. Lee would scream that they must retreat, but perhaps, just perhaps, the general he admired so much would listen to his own counsel, at last turn his army south, find some good ground. There were several stretches of good open ground between Hightstown and Kingston where he could draw up and let the British come on.
If east, it would mean a hard march. Perhaps it was impossible now to get ahead, but they could most definitely fall on the flank and rear of the British if they should choose that more timid route.
“What do you think?” von Steuben asked, looking over at Morgan.
A couple more rifles cracked to their left. Both looked over. Several dragoons lingered in the mist near the town. There was a flash of a musket from them. A second or so later, the hum of a ball passing high overhead. Morgan laughed, shaking his head.
“Two hundred and fifty yards with a musketoon? They couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at that range.”
He spat derisively in their direction. The dragoons fell back into the mists.
“I’d like to see the captured Hessians,” von Steuben announced.
Morgan looked back over his shoulder.
“Gregory!”
A rifleman stood up from behind the split rail fence bordering the woodlot. All this time, von Steuben had not noticed that only a few dozen feet away, a score of Morgan’s men were concealed.
“Take our inspector general here to meet his countrymen.”
Von Steuben looked over at Morgan.
“I’m Prussian, not Hessian.”
Morgan gave him a bit of a smile and shrugged.
Von Steuben rode up to the south side of the fence, saw no place to pass through, dismounted, and climbed over. Walker, Vogel, and Du Ponceau followed his lead. Azor took a look at the fence, tried to crawl under it, his bulk stopping him, drew back, whimpered a bit, and then finally sprang over it, a rifleman scrambling to get out of the way.
“Hey, von Steuben, you can ride that horse that’s following you,” the man cried, the others laughing.
He looked back with a good-natured grin, not sure what the man said, and called Azor to heel.
They made their way through the woodlot and picked up the scent of a cooking fire. He had not eaten since the night before, and there was the scent of bacon or ham on the wind.
He came to their encampment. A rifleman leaning against a tree simply nodded as they passed and pointed to a small clearing. Two riflemen were standing in the clearing, rifles tucked under their arms, one of them gingerly holding a slice of hot, greasy bacon and trying to eat it. Sitting and standing around the fire were nearly twenty Hessians, blue uniforms and yellow or red trim, most of them sporting the traditional drooping mustaches, all of them filthy and mud-caked. A corporal was squatting over a frying pan resting in a smoking fire, bacon sizzling, forking out slices and handing them out. Another man was peeling off slices of cold smoked ham and passing them out as well.
At the sight of von Steuben, in uniform, approaching them, a sergeant came stiffly to attention, shouting a command, the others standing. The man cutting up the ham dropped his treasure on the leaf-covered floor of the forest.
Von Steuben returned their salute.
“Stand at ease, men,” he announced in German.
They did as ordered but looked at him warily.
“I am Baron von Steuben, inspector general of the Continental Army.”
There were muttered gasps from several of the men, the sergeant snapping a command for the men to fall silent.
“I’d like to talk with you.”
No one dared to reply.
“I assure you that you shall be treated according to the proper accords of war, so you have nothing to fear now or in the future.”
He could see the uncertainty in their eyes. Some of them shifted fearful gazes toward the lanky, dirty, tough-looking riflemen guarding them.
“We came in and surrendered of our own accord, sir,” the sergeant announced, still at attention because he was addressing a superior officer and was a fellow German.
“That is good,” von Steuben replied. “I am serving on this side because it is the just side. The same as when I served with my king in the last war. But enlisted men such as yourselves must follow orders, of course.”
The sergeant and the others seemed to relax slightly.
“Sir, I was with the Twenty-first at Minden,” the sergeant announced.
“Your regiment was on our right.”
The baron smiled.
“The Twenty-first, stout lads. I remember you well.”
It was a bit of a lie. The Twenty-first had come close to breaking under the hammer blows of that morning, and his own regiment was one of those that had come to their rescue.
“I was there, too,” another man, a gray-mustached private, chimed in, and several others nodded. He could feel the tension easing.
“How did you get that food?” von Steuben asked, pointing to the frying pan. The bacon had been forgotten with his approach and was smoking and near to catching fire.
The corporal tending it squatted back down, pulling it off the fire, forked out a slab, hesitated, and then offered it to him.
He hesitated to take it; it was still sizzling. The corporal offered the fork as well, and von Steuben nodded his thanks, holding it up to take a bite.
“Found it in a barn,” one of the men offered lamely. Von Steuben chuckled and they relaxed still more.
“And your captors allowed you to keep it?” He nodded toward the two riflemen.
“We fed them first,” the sergeant offered.
“Wise move. These wild men of America can be fierce if not fed. And think of it. They’re not such bad fellows. You think the Russians or French would have allowed you to keep that food if they had caught you?”
The men shook their heads.
“We weren’t exactly caught, sir,” the sergeant announced.
“You deserted, then?”
No one spoke for a moment.
“It is all right, men. Nothing to be ashamed of.” Again that was something of a lie, at least according to his code of conduct. But he wanted information, and being friendly was always the quickest way to get it.
“I apologize for interrupting your meal. Most likely later today you will be escorted to the rear area and from there sent over to Pennsylvania. Let me give you some advice to make things easier. If you have indeed left your regiment, you know there is no going home for you, ever again.”
The men now stood silent, some lowering their heads. To his surprise, one of them broke down and began to cry, muttering about the daughters he would never see again.
Von Steuben went up and patted the man on the shoulder.
“You will see them again. That I promise you, lad.”
The man looked up at him, his sun-blistered face streaked with tears.
“When this war is won by the Americans there will be a new country here, open to all. Write to them and urge them to leave Hesse behind. Come here and start your lives over. This is a rich land, with room for all, for all who will join in the fight.
“That is my advice to you men. I know you are of stout heart—good, decent men. And yet your prince sells you to others to serve as nothing more than mercenaries. That is a violation of a code of honor, as I see it, and as you should see it. You were in the army to serve Hesse, not to be sent here to a war not of your own making. You have every right to do what you did.
“Offer to join the American cause. They need men of your training and discipline. You will win rank and advancement, I promise you that.”
“And if we are ever recaptured we will be flogged to death as deserters,” one of the men growled in reply.
“You have made a choice,” von Steuben replied, sharply fixing the man with his gaze. “If you should wish, you can go back. Go ahead!”
He snapped out the last words sharpl
y, friendly tone gone.
“Go back!” and he pointed to the south and the open field beyond. “I am a general with this army now. I will order your guards to let you go and they will obey me. You can still slip back. Say you were captured and escaped and wish to rejoin the ranks staggering along that damn road down there, with a hot day ahead, and no water. Any of you. Go now!”
No one moved. The complainer lowered his head, avoiding von Steuben’s gaze.
“Then we understand each other,” von Steuben replied, voice still a bit cold. “You have made your choice, and I now offer you a promise of hope. Offer to join the Americans’ cause and they will welcome you. Serve with honor and courage. When victory is won, contact your families and bring them here. If need be, seek me out and I will help you, my fellow Germans, in any way possible. I swear that by God Almighty.”
There were smiles, muttered offers of thanks. The two guards, not understanding a word, nevertheless sensed that something had transpired, and when he looked to them, there were nods as well.
“Sergeant!”
“Yes, General!” Again the man had snapped to attention.
“Take a walk with me.”
The sergeant saluted, told his corporal to oversee the distribution of food, and fell in respectfully by von Steuben’s side, walking half a pace behind him.
“When did you desert?”
“Last night, sir.”
“How?”
“The men are nearly all of my company. Our captain, earlier in the day, died.”
“How?”
“We think it was the heat, sir. That and too much rich food while we were in Philadelphia. He was not a bad man, but, forgive me, sir, not a very good soldier, and he was so fat he could barely walk. We were marching. There was no water, the rebels had destroyed every well along the way. The one stream we reached, they had slaughtered a cow, a couple of days before, and put it upstream from the ford. The smell of it was evil and no one dared to drink. There was offal all along the bank of the creek as well.”
“Why didn’t someone drag the cow out of the creek?”
The sergeant shook his head.
“Don’t know, sir. So we had no water, and our captain, he started to drink. He had taken to drink when we took ship over here and never stopped. Even though he was riding, he just suddenly fell from his horse, holding his chest, and was dead. The company was given to Lieutenant Dietrich and, sir, forgive me, but he is the devil incarnate. With every order given, I was to flog the last man to obey.”
“I know the type,” von Steuben said with genuine sympathy.
“That was enough for me, sir. So once it was dark I passed the word to the lads that I trusted that I was finished with it. I made sure the sentry posts were men I trusted, and just before the middle of the night we slipped out of the camp. We’d only gone several hundred paces and were nearly shot by one of those woodsmen that had been trailing us. Corporal Robb knew enough English to keep us from getting shot. The woodsman brought us in and they sent us here.”
“And the bacon and ham?” von Steuben asked.
“Well, sir, we found it along the way,” the sergeant offered, and von Steuben sensed it was a lie. He let it pass, of course. All men forage on the march—it was how they stayed alive at times—and a good sergeant knew when to turn a blind eye.
“Tell me about the march.”
“Hell, sir. Pure, bloody hell. This America—” He shook his head ruefully. “You either freeze your bottom off, or your brain is roasted. And the road! Most of the army has been moving along just one road, sandy or clay. The heat was killing us, and orders were any man who took off his jacket or, worse yet, claimed it was lost would, of course, be flogged. By yesterday, you would see a dead man by the side of the road every few hundred feet, some with faces black, tongues lolling out from the heat and no water.”
“What were the men saying?”
Here was the key question. A good sergeant, more than any other man in any army, should know the tenor and tone of his men.
The sergeant laughed and shook his head again.
“Damn mad, sir.”
“At whom?”
“Officers, and the damn British.”
“Why so?”
“You should see the wagons that are slowing us down. Rumor is General Clinton has twenty wagons loaded with wine, brandy, rum, food, furniture taken from his headquarters, tents, even some women traveling in a carriage. Even the lieutenants have their own supply wagon, while the poor sots in the ranks stagger along, some carrying packs near as heavy as they are.
“I fought in the last war from ’56 right to the bitter end. Wounded three times, I was. Would the king have allowed a march like this, sir?”
It was a slight breach of protocol for a sergeant to ask such a direct question, but it was also a compliment and von Steuben agreed, shaking his head.
“Do you think their army is going to turn north or hug the roads to the south and head for the Jersey coast?”
The sergeant looked at him with a bit of surprise.
“Sir, I’m only a sergeant. Officers don’t speak of such things in front of me.”
Von Steuben laughed softly. “Soldier’s rumors, then.”
The sergeant smiled. “Ten months ago, when they were all haughty and proud, and under Clinton rather than that scared rabbit Howe, we would be—” He hesitated. “Sir, I mean they would be marching straight north now, looking for a fight. The men all are saying that the last thing the damn British want at this moment is a fight.”
Von Steuben had half assumed that, but this was important news. A good officer knew that, more often than not, the rank and file had things figured out before the generals had even thought of it. It was a superior officer indeed who could keep his cards so close that no one could second-guess him. Frederick could do that. Washington could do it. He doubted Clinton could.
A rattle of gunfire—from the sound of it, rifles and muskets—thundered from the edge of the woodlot facing south. There was a pause, and then yet more firing. Things were beginning to kick up.
He turned and led the sergeant back to his men. The two guards, joined by half a dozen Jersey militiamen, were standing, looking expectantly to the south. It was obvious the riflemen wished to get into the fray. The appearance of the militiamen was different, though. They were gazing at the captured Hessians with cold disdain. The Germans who had appeared somewhat relaxed after talking with him were now clustered together, obviously nervous.
Von Steuben came back into the group and looked at the militiamen, then turned to Walker.
“Tell them who I am. Find out what command they are with, and tell them that these men are honorable prisoners who must be escorted back to where the army is camped near Hopewell. Be certain to get their names and that of their commander, and tell them without any misunderstanding that after this campaign is over I will personally check to see that these men have been delivered safely. Tell them that General Washington himself wishes to see them. And, if I hear of any mistreatment, it will be they who will be shot.”
He spoke loudly, in German, so that his fellow countrymen could hear.
“Thank you, sir,” the sergeant whispered. “We’ve heard that militiamen don’t take prisoners, or that if they catch us alone…”
He made a gesture indicating they would be gelded.
Walker spoke to the militia. There was some muttering, which Walker killed with a sharp command, pointing to von Steuben. At the mention of his name, the attitude seemed to change a bit.
“The best to you, men,” von Steuben announced to the prisoners. “You have made the right choice. I pray someday we shall meet again under better circumstances.”
As he turned to leave, all snapped to attention and saluted. He smiled, returned the salute, and set off back to the open field.
Reaching the edge of the woodlot, he saw that the riflemen, who had been concealed behind the fencerow, were up, moving into the fading mists, which, with the r
ising sun, were disappearing. At the northern edge of the village of Allentown, a line of light infantry skirmishers in red was deployed out, trading shots at long range. On the road itself inside the village, there was, as of yet, no movement. It was well after sunrise, the heat rising by the minute, but Cornwallis was standing in place.
What did it mean? Why weren’t the British on the road to get most of the marching in before the heat of the day? Was discipline now so collapsed that they couldn’t arouse their troops before dawn? Was Cornwallis waiting to clear back the annoying cloud of militia and riflemen before advancing north? Was the Hessian movement eastward just a feint?
Damn, he did not yet have an answer.
He rode over to where Morgan was standing in his stirrups, telescope raised, scanning the town, oblivious to the occasional shots zipping overhead and cutting into the ground at their feet.
“Could actually be their line of march, or a feint before they pivot to their real route!”
As he spoke, he lowered his glass and pointed to where, on the road that led toward Hightstown, a column of light infantry, flanked by a troop of dragoons, was drawn up with what looked to be a four-pounder, limbered and ready for the advance. The small column emerged from the town, infantrymen at the double, once clear of the last home, immediately swinging out into open-skirmish order, still charging at the double. British dragoons rode out to either flank, moving to envelope the skirmish line of Morgan’s riflemen and the Jersey militia.
The militia, at the sight of the advancing cavalry, immediately broke and headed for the woodlot, rightly fearful of being caught out in the open by mounted troops who could ride them down and slash them to pieces.
The skirmishers pressed the advance, even though Morgan’s riflemen dropped several before finally giving back.
The artillery piece advanced a hundred yards out into the open and within seconds its experienced crew had their piece unlimbered and pointed in their direction. The first shot was fired.
A second later, a four-pound ball shrieked between where Morgan and von Steuben sat astride their mounts, the round passing so close von Steuben could feel the flutter of it. There was a scream behind him. Turning, he saw that one of his cavalry escort was down, the horse having lost its right foreleg at the shoulder. The animal was in agony, kicking and thrashing as its rider was pulled clear by his comrades. One of them drew his pistol and shot the poor animal in the head, ending its suffering. The dismounted rider stood up in stunned disbelief and faced the artillery crew, shaking his fist and cursing them.
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 44