Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  Peter stepped back in front of the line, running down its length, shouting encouragement.

  Several of the men who had finished reloading shouldered their weapons and fired, the discharge of one peppering the side of Peter’s face. If he had not seen the movement at the last second, he would have been directly in front of the man, his head blown off. Only turning and tucking his chin down low into his right shoulder at the last instant had saved his life.

  “Hold your fire. Hold for volley fire!”

  He spared a quick glance at the culprit, who was so intent on what he was doing he did not even realize how close he had come to killing a comrade.

  Nevertheless, it made Peter realize that being in front now was far too dangerous. He shoved his way back through the line, making it a point to slap his musket hard into the side of the offender, who glared at him angrily.

  “Watch where you shoot, you stupid bastard!” Peter snapped, and then he was behind the line.

  “Second New Jersey! Fall back!”

  The cry came from the road, the voice loud, clear. He looked toward the road, wondering who was giving such an insane order. They were on the crest; they had stalled the light infantry. The heavy infantry would have to advance across the open ground, and at least this militia could put half a dozen more volleys into them, while the broken ranks that had swarmed past them had a chance to reform.

  “I am ordering you to fall back!”

  The man shouting the command was standing in his stirrups, pointing his sword to the rear.

  “It’s a general!” someone cried.

  Peter gazed at the man. It was indeed a general. It was Charles Lee.

  The men around Peter hesitated, some beginning to pick up the cry. An officer beside Lee—it appeared to be the brigade commander—was arguing, pointing his sword forward. Lee cut him off with a violent sweep of his hand, almost as if he was prepared to strike the man down with his sword.

  “I am General Lee! Fall back, men. Fall back! We’re being flanked!”

  And with that Lee set off at a gallop, heading to the rear.

  At that instant the regiment around Peter broke, reminding him in a flash of memories of the panic he had witnessed far too many times.

  “Hold!” he gasped, as if offering a protest, but no one heard him. He stood silent then, the entire regiment around him breaking and setting off at a run back to the west.

  The enemy light infantry, which had hesitated, seeing the move, did not hesitate now and began to bound forward. From the far ridge the dragoon companies, seeing the retreat as well, began to surge forward, and yet again there was the distant bugle call, not the call for advance or charge, but the taunting call to a foxhunt.

  Furious with rage, Peter shouldered his musket and for the briefest instant was tempted to turn about and see if he could drop Lee from the saddle.

  He fixed his aim, though, on the advancing light infantry, took careful aim at a man aiming directly at him, and fired. A second later he felt a tug at his shoulder. He felt no pain at that instant but knew he had been clipped by a musket ball.

  “Come on, boy! Run, damn it, run!”

  It was the colonel of the regiment, grabbing him by his uninjured arm.

  Instinct took the place of training. Peter turned and started the run. Behind him he could hear the growing thunder of hooves, the pounding kettle drumlike sound of cavalry coming in at a charge.

  Form square. We’re supposed to form square, he thought, but that thought was lost as he continued to run, gasping in the hot, humid, smoke-filled air.

  The men with him plunged into a tree line bordering a meandering creek, jumping into the calf-deep flow, which was by now churned muddy. Men collapsed in the water, some just stopping there, unable to run farther under the blazing hot sun.

  Around him hundreds of men seemed to be swarming to the rear, many casting aside muskets and peeling off uniform jackets so they could run faster. He caught another glimpse of Lee, now riding at a slow trot, shouting some undistinguishable orders.

  “Damn you to hell!” Peter cried, tears of frustration clouding his eyes because his musket was soaked in the creek, barrel filled with water so that he could not even shoot at the man.

  “Come on, lad.” It was the colonel, still pulling him along. Looking back, he could see the line of dragoons, now spread out, driving their quarry before them.

  “Told you it would never work,” the colonel gasped as he pulled him along. “No sense in you getting killed for nothing.”

  The Road from Englishtown to Monmouth

  11:30 AM

  He had awakened with a start. The windowpane of his small, stiflingly hot room was rattling from the distant thump of artillery fire.

  The fight was most definitely on!

  He sat up, groaning. Though the past few days had filled his heart with an excitement and joy he had not known in years, von Steuben was again being reminded that he was most definitely a man well past middle age. The joy of being on the hunt a few days before was now replaced with infinite weariness. And yet, he could not shirk it now…today he sensed might very well be the most important day of his life…even if it was his last.

  “Vogel,” he croaked. The man was asleep on the floor, Azor curled up beside him. As he nudged Vogel with his foot, his servant opened his eyes.

  Azor just gazed up at him and sighed.

  “Come on, the battle has started,” von Steuben said, barely able to speak because his throat was dry, almost constricted.

  He went through the house and out onto the front porch. A column of troops was surging by. He caught a glimpse of a flag, men of Stirling’s division, part of the main army. Most had their uniform jackets off, bundled up on their packs or simply cast aside in the boiling heat. The road was churned up into a cloud of dust, the men near ghostlike within it.

  The woman of the house was nowhere to be seen. Under a willow he saw Du Ponceau fast asleep and went over, kicking him aggressively.

  The man opened his eyes.

  “Washington. Did he pass?”

  Du Ponceau looked at him in confusion.

  “Washington?”

  “I asked the woman to tell me when she saw him,” he offered. “Damn it, get the horses!”

  He looked around and caught a glimpse of one of the children, coming from around the side of the house, lugging a pail of water.

  “Boy,” he cried. “Did you see General Washington?”

  Frustrated, he realized he was speaking in German.

  “General Washington?”

  The boy started to talk, pointing east, toward the battle, but he couldn’t understand a word. Vogel came out of the house, Azor following, stretching stiffly. Du Ponceau appeared, leading their horses. Von Steuben grabbed the bucket from the boy, offering it to his horse, which lapped up a few licks, and then in turn to Vogel’s and Du Ponceau’s horses, saving the last bit for Azor.

  His two companions were mounted. He tossed the bucket to the boy and mounted. There was still no sight of the woman, and he wondered if, in all the confusion of the army passing, she had missed sight of Washington. Or might she have been a Tory at heart and just let him ride by? It didn’t matter now.

  He rode out the open gate as one regiment finished passing, another one just emerging out of the cloud of dust, their flag marking them as Pennsylvania. He waited for their approach.

  “General Washington?” he shouted, and he pointed east.

  “Think so, sir,” a mounted colonel in the lead replied. “Ain’t seen him but reckon he’s ahead of us. Say, what the hell is going on up there?”

  Von Steuben didn’t give Du Ponceau time to reply as he turned and started east. His poor, overworked mount should have been rested for the day and not been driven back out like this in the heat, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He had to find Washington and report the enemy movements and his sense, as well, that Lee was not pushing ahead as ordered.

  The street in the center of tow
n was wide enough for him to trot alongside the column. Once out of the village, it narrowed. Now it was clogged with infantry, artillery, and wagons bringing up extra ammunition.

  He forced his way off the road and into an adjoining field and set off as fast as his mount could carry him, barely above a canter.

  The road to his right was packed solid with men, but they were moving forward in fits and starts, perhaps jogging for a hundred yards or so, men gasping in the heat, then coming to a stop, the way ahead jammed. March discipline, which he only wished he had had more time to instill in these men, was breaking down. A steady pace of three miles to the hour was far less exhausting than gaining a single mile in that same hour by running a few hundred yards, standing for minutes, creeping forward, stopping, then running again. Beyond that, this kind of marching demoralized the men, convincing them that their commanders were not in proper control.

  The ground ahead was becoming difficult to traverse. There were sloping ravines covered with tangles of briars and overgrowth, and stretches of boggy ground out of which clouds of stinging insects swarmed, as if for them this battle was manna from heaven. He came up a long slope and ahead saw a church and then the sight he most feared, men falling back through the churchyard, some collapsing on the shady side or even crawling behind head-stones to seek the protection of even such a macabre shadow.

  A regiment holding a fair semblance of order, actually marching back in column of fours, appeared. It was followed by another regiment, the second one dragging along several wounded lying in blankets, other men limping or cradling a wounded arm. Down off to his right several hundred yards away, he could see that the main column of Washington’s advance was still tangled on the road.

  Von Steuben forced a gallop toward the retreating men, Du Ponceau and Vogel by his side. Azor, unnerved by the rattle of musketry in the distance, reluctantly slunk along.

  “What in hell is going on here?” von Steuben cried.

  “We’re flying from shadows.” The reply came from a visibly distraught colonel who was in tears and pointed back to the east.

  “Lee is a poltroon, a damn fool, the son of a bitch,” the man continued to cry. “There was no council of war last night, no orders given other than to march forward. We start to deploy, not sure of our position, and then he starts to cry for us to retreat. He’s a poltroon, and, by Jehovah Himself, I will call that man out as a coward when I see him again.”

  Stopping in the shadow of the church to let his horse have a few moments in the shade, von Steuben half listened to the curses of the officers who began to gather round. The glare of the furnacelike sun was blinding as he tried to gaze across the field and marshy ground ahead. He could see a distant battle line of red, advancing into the marshy ground, moving toward their right, the American left. Down on the road, what sounded like a pitched battle had unfolded, the road and low ground obscured in smoke, shadowy lines moving out of the smoke. Men were pouring back to the west, some in panic, but many in fairly good order.

  He looked again to the center and left.

  “You will stop and rally here!” he shouted, looking back at the officers gathering around, some of them men he recognized from the long months at Valley Forge, others unknown, obviously commanders of militia.

  “You know what to do, lads. You know how to fight those red-backed sons of bitches, don’t you?”

  He could tell that Du Ponceau was adding in a few more well-practiced strings of invective, and several of the men grinned, taking off their hats and offering a weak cheer.

  “This is nothing. A mere skirmish, lads. Here is good ground. Now form your men into battle line like you’ve been taught, and be ready to move back forward to support the center or right!”

  “Goddamn, at least someone knows what they’re doing,” came an enthusiastic reply.

  He saluted, and rode out from the shadow of the church and past the hundreds of men who were slowing as they reached the low crest. He was not sure what to do next.

  He stood in his stirrups, sword drawn. “Rally, you sons of bitches, you dogs,” he cried out in German. Of those who knew him, or had heard of him, most did not understand a word, but they had heard stories that here was a man who could truly curse with the best of them, and they responded with a cheer, their officers racing about, shouting for them to fall back into line.

  He raced across the flank of the slope, knots of men running past in the opposite direction. He really did not need directions now. The thick of the fight was on the main road ahead and he rode straight toward it, having to slow at times to push around men fleeing to the rear, or sometimes tangling up with other regiments from the main body of the army that were beginning to swing out into battle formation. And then he saw him, straight ahead, and indeed in the middle of the fight.

  “Do not show your backs to them! Rally!”

  Boiling with rage, General Washington rode back and forth across the area where he was trying to establish a new front to slow down the advancing enemy, who were less than three hundred yards off. Most of the panicked troops were now behind him, having far outrun their pursuers, who were keeping formation and advancing at a steady pace, believing they were driving a routed foe from the field.

  He stood tall, gazing at the men who were reforming into ranks.

  “You know me!” Washington cried. “And I know the mettle of what you are. And I now ask you…Can you fight?”

  A ragged, halfhearted cheer greeted his words.

  He looked to his right, where Anthony Wayne, explosive with rage over what had happened, was keeping two regiments of Pennsylvanians in line. Though the range was long, they delivered volley after volley.

  He pointed toward Wayne’s men.

  “They have trained just as you have, my lads. Now will you let it be said that men of Pennsylvania can fight better than you?”

  Even as he shouted encouragement, officers and sergeants were jostling men back into line.

  “Now I ask you again. Will you fight?!”

  This time his words were met by a cheer and then three huzzahs for the general.

  “Get ready to give them everything you have. The rest of the army is forming up behind you in support!”

  Wayne came galloping up to his side, swearing a blue streak.

  “You must hold here, General Wayne,” Washington announced, now lowering his voice. “The rest of the army is deploying out even now on the far side of that ravine.” As he spoke he pointed back to the west, where, several hundred yards away, lines were beginning to shake out from column of march.

  Wayne, face so soaked with sweat that it looked as if he had just emerged from swimming in a deep pool, nodded.

  “Forgive me, sir, but God damn Lee! We had them by surprise and then he panicked, said our right was broken and we were outnumbered. I begged him, sir. I begged him in front of the men to hold, that you were coming up and would strike on the right in reply.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” His voice broke with rage and shame.

  Washington extended a reassuring hand. He knew that for Wayne this fight was a personal test unlike any other. Though exonerated for what happened at Paoli, Wayne had repeatedly sworn that in the next battle he would either have his revenge and regain his honor or die in the effort.

  “Do not do anything foolish, General Wayne,” Washington said sternly. “I need you today. Now, take command here.”

  “General Washington!” He turned to see another reassuring face. It was von Steuben, his staff trailing, the man’s face a picture of fury.

  “I am at your service, General,” von Steuben cried, and he nodded.

  “Move along the line, stiffen the men. This vanguard is to slow the enemy while our main body deploys.”

  “Sir, General Lee should be fighting this battle miles forward, overrunning the supply trains I saw last night.”

  Washington took it in.

  “No time for that now. Go rally the men and then slowly pull back onto the main line, giving me ti
me to get the rest of the army deployed. I thought I would find this battle three miles farther ahead and not here!”

  Wayne and von Steuben saluted and rode back to the right…and then Washington saw him, crossing the field to the left, surrounded by staff, a knot of infantry falling back with him, his head lowered, his mount lathered with sweat.

  At that instant, at the sight of Lee, the way he had led, the way he had fought battles, the lingering sense, across all the long years, that somehow, just somehow, the professionals who trained and fought in the armies of Europe were superior and perhaps even to be deferred to in some manner, forever vanished. Gone with it was any remaining core of self-doubt. While in the future he would seek counsel and advice, he would always do so with the knowledge that his instincts and his judgment would be the final arbiter of what needed to be done.

  “General Lee!” he thundered, riding straight at the man. Lee looked up at him, eyes narrowing. Men who had been fleeing slowed to a stop, for, though in the middle of a battle being lost, they knew a new storm was about to explode.

  “General Lee!”

  Lee started to raise his hand to remove his hat in salute.

  “In the name of God Almighty. What have you done here?”

  “Sir. As ordered, I…”

  “God’s wounds, sir. I do not believe what I am seeing. What in hell are you doing?”

  “Sir, the situation developed poorly…”

  “Poorly? It is you, sir. Damn your soul, it is you, sir, who have behaved poorly.”

  Lee recoiled in shock.

  “Sir, I object to that tone.”

  A pent-up rage, a fury that perhaps could be traced back across two years of frustration and defeat after defeat, at last exploded into the open.

  Washington removed his hat, drew it back as if ready to strike Lee in a challenge, and then, thinking better of such behavior, hurled it to the ground.

  “You are a strutting, arrogant, foul-mouthed poltroon. You came to this army boasting of all your skills and I was fool enough to believe in you.”

  “The men, sir, they began to break as I told you they would when facing the enemy in an open fight…”