Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

“Feed it to them, damn them!” he cried. “Feed it to them!”

  “My God, what the hell is that?” Captain André cried, turning to his left. In the confusion and smoke of the battle directly to his front, neither Allen nor he had paid much attention to anything happening elsewhere.

  Their men, hunkered down behind a hedgerow, were curled up into the narrow shade offered under the blazing early afternoon sun. They had found a brackish creek, dragging bleeding bodies and the half-drowned wounded of both sides out of it and, under John’s strict orders, not harming the enemy wounded, before filling their canteens with the muddy water.

  Ammunition had finally been brought up, corporals and sergeants smashing open the boxes and going down the line, passing out cartridges. Several of the light infantrymen died while in the shade, already too far gone from the heat. More than a few were in the throes of sunstroke, vomiting, shaking, their comrades stripping them down and forcing them into the muddy water to try to cool their bodies.

  Allen, to the mocking disdain of more than a few of his British comrades while his back was turned, was taking canteens from the American wounded, going down to the filthy creek to refill them, and returning them, helping more than one man to sit up so he could drink.

  “You one of them?” a man, shot in the stomach, gasped.

  “Yes.”

  “You sound Jersey to me.”

  “I am. From Trenton. And you?’

  “Springfield, damn your soul.” The dying man pushed the canteen away from his lips. Allen lowered his head, put the canteen by the man’s side, and went on to help the next man.

  General Grey was nowhere to be seen or found, having gone forward with the Grenadier that had been assigned to his division, leaving the light infantry behind to recuperate from their morning exertions.

  As the heavy lines of Grenadiers and Guards and the serried ranks of infantry had swept forward, Allen half expected that within minutes the battle would hit its climax and then sweep on. He dreaded the thought that he and the men he was with would be thrown back into the fight.

  But the volley and countervolleys had thundered on for more than an hour. Men had cheered as the Forty-second, the legendary Black Watch, attempted a charge on the center, followed minutes later farther to the right by the Coldstream, supported en echelon by the Twenty-third. To the stunned disbelief of all watching, these troops had been repulsed from the low crest.

  Men by the hundreds were now pouring back from the volley line. Dragoons had begun to ride back and forth behind the line, shouting at the men to “show blood to pass,” and many were indeed wounded, reaching the creek bed where the light infantry rested and collapsing. Increasingly, though, they were men just simply exhausted and played out beyond caring. They could be flogged, beaten, threatened with the point of a sword or a cocked pistol and still they staggered on, or just simply collapsed. The reserve position was filling up with men dead or dying from the heat.

  And now something was happening to the left.

  Allen was helping an elderly man from, of all places, Bordentown, just down the road from where he lived. He was a distant kinsman of Elizabeth’s. Using a discarded saber and blanket to fashion an awning to keep the sun off the man’s face, Allen stood up to see what André was shouting about.

  Through the clouds of smoke he could see brilliant flashes, followed a few seconds later by a howling clattering noise.

  “Grapeshot into our flank!” André cried. “God damn them, how did they get those guns there?”

  There was another volley from the battery and Allen could see shadows of movement in the ranks of heavy infantry.

  They were beginning to fall back!

  Those British light infantrymen still capable of action began to stand up. They were spectators witnessing a drama, but they knew they were about to be called back onto the stage.

  Most of them had already cleaned their muskets, but many now resumed the task, dipping strips of rags into the muddy water, wrapping them tightly around their ramrods, and forcing them down the barrels to swab them clean. This was followed by a dry piece of rag to make sure the barrels were dry. Frizzens, pans, and flints were wiped clean. Though shaken, these men were far from ready to quit this fight, Allen realized.

  Sergeants shouted orders for the light infantry to stand to at proper intervals and be ready, those too sick to fight and the wounded to make their own way to the rear. Wounded light infantry struggled to their feet, more than a few terrified of the fate that might befall them if taken prisoner, especially by Mad Anthony’s men.

  And now the flood hit them. By the hundreds, line regiments with glorious names were falling back, most moving in some semblance of order, stopping every fifty paces or so to deliver a ragged volley, regimental pride formed across generations preventing them from fully breaking even now, as artillery fire from the flank plowed into their ranks. A single shot could bowl over four, six, even eight to ten men into a bloodied, tangled mass.

  “My light infantry!”

  Allen looked up. It was Grey on the road, General Clinton by his side.

  “Men. We will hold them here while the main body retires!”

  Grey pushed his mount, barely able to walk, blood streaming from wounds to its right thigh and rear quarter, off the road and down into the narrow creek bed.

  “We will hold them here as the main body retires!”

  Never had he given such an order before! Always it had been for the light infantry to charge at the double-quick, “in and after them now, my lads, and show no mercy!”

  But not now, not in this blinding heat and frightful cross fire pouring down from the hill to their right, and a resurging rattle of volley fire to their front.

  “You said, earlier?”

  Allen felt a hand on his shoulder. It was André.

  Allen could not reply.

  “Just remember, my friend. Never remind a general of a mistake you warned him about earlier. Bad form, you know, and not good for promotion.”

  André forced a smile and, with drawn sword, left him to go down the line.

  “Now, men. Now!”

  He was not sure who shouted the command, but it filled Peter’s heart with a savage joy. He believed what was happening, for his own eyes told him so, and yet he found it nearly impossible to believe.

  Four, maybe six hours ago he had seen his army, his comrades, behave as they had in half a dozen other stand-up fights. They had advanced with courage, but then within minutes were beaten down by the unrelenting volleys of the enemy, broken and demoralized. A cry would go up to retreat and it would turn to a rout. The victories at Trenton and Princeton had, in the first case, been won by total surprise and, in the second case as well, by a surprise and then a mad rush of desperate men closing with the enemy before the British musketry delivered in disciplined fire could tear them apart.

  But now, this afternoon? It had been like witnessing a holy miracle. This time it was the disciplined, trained volley fire of his comrades, firing again and again and again, under a sun that was like the furnace of hell, that broke the enemy apart in an open-field fight…until, at last, their flank had been gained, just as von Steuben had promised it could be if they held the center. American artillery on that flank had done the rest.

  The British were falling back and in places were actually trying to run, though run could hardly be the word for it. Both sides were exhausted, but the British far more so, burdened by their heavy uniforms, packs, and equipment. By the score they were throwing away their muskets, or just simply collapsing in the heat.

  His men had filed in to replace the men of a Massachusetts brigade, their advance greeted with hoarse, croaking cheers. The tough men of the Bay Colony then stepped back, collapsing into the tamped-down hay, those still capable of any effort helping others to clean muskets, replace flints, taking canteens and passing them to the women with the regiment. In the case of a brother, son, or father, they were given permission to help carry their kin back to a safe plac
e before returning.

  Peter had not expected his men to fire in much of a disciplined manner, but they had made the best of it, able to deliver one good, scathing volley every minute or so. There had been a final, surging attempt by a British regiment to close and force them back, the ghostlike figures in the thick, cloying smoke, not more than a few dozen yards off, moving toward them. Their volley had hit his line hard, a couple of dozen men dropping, but the return volley, when the British had assumed the Americans would break, had shattered the British spirit, broken their morale, and sent them reeling.

  The colonel of his regiment was played out from the heat, and from far too much fat on his body, and had already fainted away. To Peter’s astonishment, the men of what he now called his regiment were actually responding directly to his commands. They had begun to surge forward and then he heard von Steuben shouting.

  “Nein, nein! Volley jaja!”

  Peter did as ordered and the wraithlike British line disappeared from view when his men fired. As the smoke ever so slowly lifted, they were gone.

  They fired a half-dozen more times into the mist, and then there was a strange silence, except for the booming of the cannons to their right up on Combs Hill. There was no return fire.

  No one spoke for a moment as his men loaded, Peter shouting a command for them to cease fire with their muskets poised.

  There was no fire in response except for the occasional cannonball winging overhead or kicking up a cloud of dust and dirt in front of the line, the ball then bounding high overhead and far into the rear.

  Still nothing. A hoarse cheer started to their right, from the artillery position, and it was picked up and chorused down the entire length of the line. Thousands of men cheered, at least those who still had the strength and voice to do so.

  They had stood against the finest infantry in the world, fought them toe-to-toe in this furnace of hell, and now held the field, victorious.

  Men began to slap each other on the back, some boasting already about how many of the lobsterbacks they had dropped. Others were lifting their eyes to heaven in prayers of thanks, some weeping. More than a few, the excitement and terror of the moment passing at last, slowly fell to their knees and lay down, pushed beyond all limits of their endurance.

  “Nein! Nein! Not finished! Now, forward!”

  Peter heard the command, caught a glimpse of von Steuben as the smoke was slowly lifting, and then saw Lafayette galloping down the length of the battle line, his horse lathered and near to collapse.

  “Forward, brave men. Now drive them. Drive them!”

  Some looked at him pass, incredulous, for had they not done all that was humanly possible this day?

  Peter turned and faced the regiment.

  “You heard him.” His voice cracked.

  “Charge bayonets!”

  Men in the front ranks lowered their weapons, those in the back ranks held their muskets high.

  Peter, armed with his musket, held it high like a sword and pointed it forward.

  “At marching pace. Forward!”

  There was no drummer boy; the lad had fainted away hours ago. He stepped off, counting out the cadence, looking back to see if any would follow, and his heart swelled. Nearly half did. The others were far too spent and simply collapsed, or remained where they were. Of two hundred with the regiment at dawn, fifty at most were still with him, stringing out into a single line and trying to keep formation as they swept down the hill. After fifty or so paces they crossed over the farthest advance of their foes. The ground was littered with bodies, some of them dead, most of them wounded or down with the heat. He saw a man raise his musket up, ready to club a fallen British soldier. Turning, he leveled his musket straight at the man.

  “Damn your soul, I’ll shoot you if you strike him!” Peter cried. “For God’s sake, we’re Americans, and we take prisoners!”

  The man looked at him as if stricken, lowered his musket, and pressed on, Peter turning to lead the way, his heart struck by the cry of the wounded British soldier, speaking with a heavy Irish brogue, crying a blessing on him.

  The smoke was beginning to lift, the air thick with humidity but almost breathable. He could sense that the air was slightly cooler here as they pushed to the edge of marshy ground, thickets ahead marking where a creek traversed the muddy ground.

  And then a scattered volley swept out to them, several of his men collapsing, screaming.

  Their damn light infantry!

  “Volley fire on my command!” Peter cried as he backed up into the ranks of his men. Earlier in the day the surprise would have broken them, but not now.

  “Take aim!”

  Men brought their muskets down.

  “Aim low, boys. Low straight into the thicket!”

  “Fire!”

  Their muskets rattled off. In the silence of the seconds afterward, he could hear screams from the other side. To either flank, though he couldn’t see them, he heard more volleys.

  “Reload!”

  There was another scattering of fire, but not as intense as before. A man next to Peter silently dropping, head split wide-open by the impact of a .72 round ball fired at close range.

  “Poise your muskets!”

  Men raised their weapons up.

  “When you fire, then charge bayonets!”

  It wasn’t a proper command, but, then again, these were not properly trained infantry of the line.

  “Fire!”

  Another volley rang out and then he leapt forward.

  “Charge!”

  Those around him, enraged by the surprise strike when they thought the battle over, broke into a run straight at the thicket. Several shots rang out and another man dropped, but this only served to further enrage them. In the shadows they could see men clambering up on the other side of the thicket and creek.

  Light infantry!

  “On them with the bayonet!” one of the sergeants near Peter cried. “On them!”

  The charge surged forward into the thicket and a mad tangle ensued. Some of the British, pushed beyond exhaustion and unable to run, tried to hold their ground, men trading feeble blows with clubbed muskets and bayonets.

  Peter, using the butt and muzzle of his musket, knocked brush aside and slid down, nearly falling into the creek, and then stood up.

  He looked up straight into the gaping muzzle of a pistol, not a dozen feet away, aimed straight at him.

  He flinched, braced himself for the killing blow, unable to raise his own musket in defense.

  “Merciful God in heaven. Peter Wellsley!”

  His gaze lifted from the muzzle to the man behind it. It was Allen van Dorn.

  There was a slow, drawn-out frozen moment. Peter started to raise his own musket in defense, finger on trigger, but he felt wooden, slow, as if trapped in a nightmare sea of mud.

  “Peter. My God.”

  He stood, unable to think. This was Allen. This was the older brother of his dearest comrade. This was his childhood friend and hero, dressed now in the uniform of the detested British light infantry, the muzzle of his pistol aimed straight at his eyes, trembling finger on trigger.

  The moment stretched into eternity.

  “Run, Allen, run,” he gasped, “for Christ’s sake, run!”

  He could see Allen’s eyes contract and he winced, as if Allen would indeed pull the trigger.

  He raised the pistol up, fired it nearly straight up, and then turned and did as Peter begged. He ran.

  A man slammed into Peter, knocking him to his knees. It was the soldier who had nearly clubbed the wounded man but a moment before.

  “Down, sir!” the man cried, and even as he knocked Peter over he raised his musket, and drew careful aim on Allen’s back.

  Horrified, Peter saw the man’s finger curl around the trigger.

  “No!”

  He swung his own musket up, striking the barrel, knocking the weapon high just as it discharged.

  Terrified, Peter raised himself to look throug
h the coiling smoke from the discharge.

  The man had missed.

  Peter looked up at his would-be protector, who gazed down at him angrily.

  “Now just why in hell did you do that, damn it!” the man cried.

  Peter could not speak, fearing his voice would break.

  “Why?”

  “He’s my brother,” Peter whispered in reply.

  The man gazed down at him in surprise, and then turned and without comment knelt down in the muddy creek, splashing water on his face.

  Peter looked to his left and right. The men were played out, the retreating enemy staggering through the marshy ground as they tried to run, here and there a man going down, collapsing, as those still with any fight in them continued to fire at their retreating foes.

  He followed Allen with his gaze as he staggered off, until at last he disappeared into the smoke that blanketed the field.

  The sound of gunfire drifted off. A command came from the right, from whom he did not know. For the line to hold, that Greene’s men would now pursue.

  The order was greeted with silence. No cheers now. Most of the men were sitting down in the mud, scooping up handfuls to plaster their faces to ward off the swarming insects, or swishing the sluggish stream with their canteens, trying to fill them.

  “Sir?”

  He looked up. It was the man who had tried to shoot Allen minutes before.

  He was holding a canteen, offering it. The man gazed at him intently. He looked up. The man above him was no longer a soldier. He was simply a man old enough to be his father offering him a drink. He appeared to be nearly his father’s age, unshaved for a week or more, beard gray, hairline receding, shirt and trousers plastered to him with sweat and mud.

  Peter took the canteen and nodded his thanks, gulping down a long drink of the foul-tasting water, which at this moment tasted almost like nectar.

  “Was he really your brother, sir?”

  Peter thought of Jonathan and his frozen grave. And of—long before that, so many years before that—the lazy summers of a joyful youth…Allen acting the role of being annoyed when his young brother and friends pestered him and followed him, but then smiling, teaching them how to fish, to track game, shoot and clean it, to play like Indians in the woods. And when a lesson was too hard, Allen had always been ready to help them with their studies and readings.