From 1777, the humiliating defeat at Brandywine with his army, morale shattered, staggering through the streets of this same city. Not a civilian in sight, windows were shuttered, doors barred, and not a single flag was visible. Congress had already fled, finding out later that at least someone had remembered at the last minute to snatch their original signed copy of the Declaration from a clerk’s desk, and had hid it in a wagon following the caravan of their retreat. The wounded and sick were piled into more wagons, to be left behind to the less than tender mercies of the victors, who first confined them in an unheated barracks for most of the autumn and winter, before taking them up to the prison hulks on the East River. Chances were that less than one in twenty of those he had been forced to leave behind were still alive.
It had been a bitter moment of humiliation and defeat. Now this.
Part of him did feel a touch of cynicism. How many of these same people had locked their doors four years earlier—or worse, had hung out Union Jacks and cheered when Howe and his men marched up this same street in their triumph? Yet, as he tried to still that thought, what else could so many of them have done? Their army had been shattered, most thought at that moment that the Revolution was dead, and he recalled the lament of one of his soldiers, caught as a deserter, whom he had spared from execution when the man, looking him in the eyes, had quietly said “Sir, I am a Patriot, but I am also a father. My wife is dead of the smallpox and I have four children starving at home with no one to take care of them. What would you do?”
He had spared the man … but he had died of frostbite three years later at Morristown after both of his feet were amputated.
I must end this war, he thought, as he gazed at the still silent civilians. If we are doomed to lose this campaign, and all odds are against us, we shall go down fighting, and by losing that way, perhaps inspire a future generation, maybe a hundred, two hundred years hence to attempt to stand yet again for their rights and the rights of their children. It must end now, he thought. This campaign must end it and I am venturing all on this single throw of the dice, not just for my army, which has stayed loyal, but for all these people as well.
Then the cheering started. An elderly man stepped out into the cleared street, where local militia now lined the road to hold back the gathering crowds. The old man took off his hat, bowed low to Washington, then turned back to the assembled observers and tossed his hat high in the air, crying: “Three cheers for General Washington, our gallant lads, and our noble allies!”
The cry was picked up, echoed down the street. Washington looked over at Rochambeau, who could not suppress a grin of delight, bracing back as well.
Leading their grand army of nearly ten thousand tough and hardened veterans, they returned in triumph down the main thoroughfare into the heart of Philadelphia, the capital of a nation still being born.
Cheer after cheer greeted them, crowds surging forward, at times breaking through the cordon of Philadelphia militia trying to hold them back. Washington, more than a bit embarrassed and with Rochambeau laughing with delight at his embarrassment, accepted a bouquet of flowers from a beautiful young lass who raced up beside him handing the flowers up. He quickly handed the flowers off to a grinning Alexander Hamilton riding just behind him.
The crowds were teeming—six, eight deep as they approached the main plaza at the center of town. His heart swelled, when for the first time in more than three years, he caught sight of the state assembly building “Independence Hall.” Two flags fluttered atop it in the hot August breeze—the flag of France, and the thirteen stars and stripes of America. He had a flash thought, wondering who had started the legend that he had sat with a seamstress with the name of Betsy Ross to design the flag, and that she had personally stitched the first one together. It was a little exaggerated, actually, but when legends gave strength to his cause, he would not dismiss them.
On a raised platform stood those members of Congress in the city this day, the delegation headed by Laurens of South Carolina, president of the Confederation, and he knew this moment would bear great symbolism. He turned aside from the head of the parade and rode straight toward them, the crowd falling somewhat silent.
Across the years since the terrible winter of Valley Forge, and the plot to remove him by General Gates and some of the very men standing on the platform, there had been rumors that a day would come when, like Caesar, he would ride into this city at the head of an army, bring down the government at the point of the bayonet and seize control. More than a few—in fact, many—in the ranks marching behind him actually wanted such an event. For years, many members of Congress had mismanaged this war, and some had lined their own pockets and grown rich, while his men suffered, fought, and died by the thousands. Many died for want of but one decent meal or a warm shelter for a single night, a pair of shoes to spare them from the agony of midnight sentry duty in freezing rain, or on the long icy march to Trenton or Morristown, or a few extra cartridges at Monmouth, where, when out of ammunition, they had stood defiant against the charges of the enemy.
He approached the dais, and knew that more than one gazing down at him did so with a wary glance. There had even been rumors reported to him that several in Congress were saying that was exactly what he planned to do this day and the campaign to the South was just a cover for what would be a coup. Several averted their eyes, either out of fear or shame for how they had wronged him and his army in the past.
He slowly dismounted. There was a distant cry of a lone voice, “We’re with you, General.” He knew what that voice was actually saying.
After a momentary pause and then with full ceremonial flourish, he removed his hat, and bowed low in salute. Then, standing erect, Washington raised his sword and presented it in salute, a salute of recognition that he was but a soldier of a republic, acknowledging the leadership of those whom the people of his nation had chosen to be their elected representatives. For good or bad, for better or worse, it was these men to whom he had to answer in all things because, ultimately, he was but a soldier, and they represented what it was he fought for, and was willing to die for.
A gasp arose from the crowd and then, within seconds, a thunderous applause erupted.
Laurens gazed down at him, beaming. Laurens’s son, a most trusted member of his own staff, along with the rest of Washington’s staff, had dismounted, and following the example of their general offered salutes as well, and the cheering of the crowd redoubled.
President Laurens beckoned for Washington to step on to the platform and as he did so, Laurens made the gesture of coming halfway down the steps, extending his hand and then embracing Washington, whispering, “God bless you this day, sir,” his words barely audible so loud was the cheering.
Rochambeau, in a gesture that was almost humble, was still astride his mount, but with head lowered, and it was evident there were tears in his eyes.
Laurens removed his hat and held it aloft.
“Vive la France!” he cried, and that cheer was picked up by the crowd, and he motioned for the French general to join them as well.
Rochambeau dismounted, stepping up on to the dais to stand on the other side of Laurens, and was greeted with thunderous applause. The general removed his hat, waving it and grinning with obvious delight.
The parade of ten thousand men, bound for what all knew was a final defiant gamble of victory or defeat, pressed forward, flag bearers, drummers, and fifers already passing, while the combined staffs of the American and French generals dismounted as well and stood before the assembly on the platform.
Next came Harry Lee and his dragoons and light cavalry, followed by Knox and his several dozen fieldpieces, the battery of six pounders, recruited out of this city, drawing loud cheers and then laughter as a woman, obviously expecting childbirth within days, waddled into the middle of the street to be swept into a loving embrace by a young gunner, the two crying with delight in this brief moment of reunion. The gunner looked to his officer who gave an indulgent nod, and the
gunner, struggling to lift his wife and carry her, disappeared into the crowd to be greeted with cheers, laughter, and more than a few ribald comments.
Then came the infantry, led by the 1st Continental Regiment of Foot, men of Pennsylvania, and the crowd went wild with ecstatic cheering. Women burst through the cordon. For a brief instant Washington feared he might actually lose most of that regiment, a few men slipping off for reunions with wives, mothers, and children, but in general, discipline held as most of the men stayed in their ranks, their colonel offering a formal salute as they filed past.
Then regiment after regiment filed by in formal review. Though their greeting from the citizens of Philadelphia was somewhat less passionate, there were still formal cries for “three cheers for the lads of Maryland!” and for the men of Jersey, Virginia, and New York. As each regiment passed it offered formal salute to the Congress and the two generals standing with them, until all four thousand of them had passed.
Then there was a lull, the street empty for a moment, the crowds and even members of Congress leaning out, looking up the thoroughfare to the north, wondering if it was over, but soon a thunderous ovation began to echo down toward them. Now the French army came into view at last. With a dramatic flourish, a dozen mounted trumpeters were in the lead, and had the crowd gasping at this glittering display of white uniforms of the Royal Guard of King Louis XVI, uniforms glittering with a score of golden buttons each the size of a Spanish doubloon.
Perfectly timed, they held their trumpets up, saluting the dignitaries, then blew a fanfare that echoed through the streets, and as they did so they formed ranks six across and continued to sound the fanfare as they led the parade. It was so typical of the French, Washington thought, and smiling he looked past Laurens to his comrade who was obviously filled with pride, smiling back. It was, as actors would say, a “scene stealer” but one that he was more than happy to grant this day, since without their noble allies, none of this would now be happening. There would be no mad gamble, no final desperate hope and lunge, which behind all this fanfare was the real reason they were parading down this street.
First came the battalion of the Royal Guards, and at the sight of them the crowd really did give way to wild cheering. They were splendid in their dress uniforms, all officers at the front, mounted, wigs powdered, some sporting the rather strange (to his eyes) makeup and “beauty marks” still popular with the royal court, but nevertheless fierce, tough soldiers, who, if ever mocked for such display, would readily reply with drawn sword in defense of their masculine honor and the honor of France.
Behind them, in perfect rigid lines, marching in perfect step, came the ranks of the guard, muskets at the shoulder, bayonets sparkling in the sunlight. These, he knew, were not parade ground soldiers, fit only to march around in front of a royal palace for the entertainment of the nobles and their mistresses. They were, man for man, the match of any equal number or even double the number of the elite Hessians. They had faced them before on many a battlefield of Europe and would die to a man to defend, if not necessarily the cause for which he fought, at least the honor of their regiment, their country, their general, and the king who had chosen to throw his nation and their national fortune into the American cause.
Behind them came a dozen more regiments, resplendent, of course in white, but each regiment marked with the various colorings of cuffs, collars, and trouser striping to distinguish their individual units.
“I fear many of our ladies of Philadelphia are falling in love,” Laurens said to Rochambeau, for more than a few of the young women of Philadelphia, swept up by the splendid display, were forcing their way through the cordon of militia, dashing up to kiss a very happy soldier of France on the cheek and offer a flower, and perhaps a quickly whispered name and address.
Rochambeau offered the classic Gallic gesture of a shrug and a beaming smile.
“C’est l’amour,” he said smiling and all around him laughed good naturedly, though Washington could sense that more than a few members of Congress were not so amused, and once this ceremony was over, would race home to check on the status and whereabouts of their daughters.
Then, the last regiment of France marched by. A vast encampment area had already been arranged just south of the city, something Washington had insisted upon, with the strictest of orders, days before. There would certainly be a fete tonight, well deserved and most definitely a morale builder for these men, both American and French, who had endured so much without the attention of so many fair ladies across the years. But in a sense, it was a false triumph, unlike the legendary parades of returning Roman heroes from far Carthage or Germania, their wars won. They were marching to a battle, problematic at best, and in harsh reality a potentially forlorn hope, for even now de Grasse might be sailing in a direction opposite of the one promised, driven by hurricane storms a thousand miles away. Or worse still, the Royal navy, so confident and used to victory—a confidence well earned—might have already met and defeated him, and on some far away coast in the Carolinas, at this very moment thousands of bloated bodies of French sailors might be washing ashore.
All hope and future would be gone for them—and gone for the republic as well. The men standing about him now would then, in a matter of weeks or months, crawl to Clinton in New York and beg for peace, while he and the hard-bitten veterans who had just paraded before him turned westward. That was his secret, never written down: He would go into exile on the frontier of the Ohio rather than submit to humiliation and surrender.
But at this moment? Let this city, this Congress, and this army celebrate. Though tomorrow, once new supplies and pay had been drawn to further boost morale, the march southward would continue. So they would encamp tonight just south of the city. There would be many a man who by dawn could barely stand, and barely march, and he knew some would no longer be in the ranks, having come this far, but at the sight of home and family, after so many years of exile in North Jersey and New York, their resolve weakened, would have slipped away for home.
Most, and, he prayed silently, nearly all, would remain with their standards and the march would continue, but for this night they deserved, though cordoned off from too many temptations, a night to bask in glory, and at least some semblance of adoration.
Behind the parading troops now came the rather inglorious sight of a two-mile-long column of supply wagons, loaded down with spare rations, extra ammunition, medical supplies, and tents for field hospitals and the burdensome, but for the French, essential, “impedimenta” of their culture—choice food and drink for the officers and even some few treats for their enlisted men.
The crowd began to break up as suddenly disheartened teamsters and guards for the supply train shouted appeals for a least a kiss from the lasses or a bottle of rum, which triggered laughter and even a few friendly offers in reply, but nowhere near the showering of praise heaped upon the main troops of the line of the Continentals or especially those of France.
“General Washington, sir.”
He turned and saw Robert Morris. He gladly took the man’s proffered hand. He had doubted this man’s true patriotism before this campaign, but not now, knowing that whatever profits Morris had made in the war, he had personally ventured in support of this campaign.
“General, sir, we must talk this evening, it is urgent that we do so. Would you accept the honor of dining with me?”
“I am at your beck and call, sir,” Washington replied, feeling a bit of a chill because it was obvious by his demeanor that Morris was anxious.
“Sir, about the pay and supplies you and your men expect tomorrow,” Morris whispered without preamble, “there’s a problem…”
Ten
PHILADELPHIA
EARLY EVENING
AUGUST 29, 1781
For Elizabeth Risher it had been a most splendid afternoon. She had taken the red, white, and blue cotton and silk from several dresses, now long out of style, to create a new dress for the occasion, complete to a sash of blue with wh
ite stars. There was a time in her life when such was not necessary; when a mere charming smile to her indulgent father would have sent her packing for the latest style to the seamstress down on Market Street, the same one who allegedly had made the first national colors, but that was before the war.
Half trusted by some, despised by many, and not fully trusted by anyone, it had been a lonely life. She had sealed off most of their once-vibrant home, except for her bedroom, the parlor, and the kitchen where she made her own meals. It was existence on the edge, not a life. Like so many, she never would have believed this war would have dragged on for six long years.
Though the patriotic parade of this afternoon had created a new surge of morale—it was the first time since the summer of ’78 that thousands of troops of the Revolution had paraded through the city—she was savvy enough to know that they were all bound on a desperate bid to end this conflict before winter. The city had been teeming with rumors ever since the spring that the Czarina of Russia had offered mediation, that both the French and English governments had expressed at least some interest in a settlement, and that more than a few in Congress were eager to see an end to the war, even if it meant only limited freedom, as long as there were pardons for all leaders involved. If this campaign should end in disastrous failure, the rumormongers were always ready to speculate. There were stories already that all was dependent on some sort of movement by a French fleet, and with more than three hundred miles yet to go on a march into Virginia, that would be the end of it. By the following spring it would be over with, a negotiated peace—a negotiated defeat.
This afternoon there had been a spirit of celebration, and tonight the city would be tumultuous, filled with soldiers who had managed to slip past pickets and provost guards. There was to be a grand illumination (and even fireworks) in front of the city hall.
Walking down the alleyway to her back door, Elizabeth fumbled through her clutch bag for the entry key. The early evening was boiling hot and once inside she looked forward to just locking the door behind her, opening the upper floor windows to try to create some draft, and perhaps even taking a sponge bath to cool off. She felt the cool barrel of the small pistol she kept in her clutch bag, always ready. That, of course, would never be beyond grasp at any time, even when asleep. She was a young and lovely woman who, too many were aware, was living alone, and on this night of what would certainly be a drunken debauch for many, once darkness fell, this city was not the safest place to be.
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