by Ron Carter
December 19. Starving, freezing, and destitute, the Continental Army arrives at Valley Forge.
December 20. General Washington issues orders to begin building the small huts for which Valley Forge will become famous.
December 22. General Washington writes a letter to President Henry Laurens of the United State Congress, describing the terrible plight of his men and including the statement about their existing on “a cold, bleak hill.”
1778
February 23. German General Frederich von Steuben arrives at Valley Forge to take charge of training and disciplining the American troops, a feat which he accomplishes beyond all expectations.
April 4. In an exchange of prisoners, American general Charles Lee, held prisoner by the British since before the battle of Trenton, is released. He arrives at Valley Forge on April 6.
May 4. The United States Congress ratifies the treaty with France, bringing France and its invaluable assistance into the Revolutionary War on the side of the Americans.
May 25. His resignation having been accepted by Lord Germain and the British Parliament, General William Howe sails for England. Command of the British forces in America is given to General Sir Henry Clinton.
June 17–18. In a nighttime maneuver, General Clinton evacuates Philadelphia and marches his troops toward New York.
June 28. General Washington’s forces attack General Clinton’s British column at Monmouth Courthouse, New Jersey. General Charles Lee is in command of a large American division assigned to lead the attack. When Lee retreats, General Washington intercepts him and reprimands him severely, then turns the division around and resumes the attack. Following a fierce engagement, the British flee during the night and the Americans claim victory.
1779
September 23. Commodore John Paul Jones, aboard the Bonhomme Richard, engages the larger British man-of-war Serapis off the east coast of England in the much-celebrated night battle in which Jones utters the now-famous cry, “I have not yet begun to fight!” (See volume 1)
Part One
College of New Jersey Campus
Princeton, New Jersey
January 3, 1777
CHAPTER I
* * *
Have someone walk this horse until she’s cooled out, then rub her down and grain her. Gather all the officers you can find for a council.”
General George Washington dismounted his tall gray mare and for a moment stood stiff-legged on the frozen ground, in the manner of horsemen who have been in the saddle too long. He handed the reins to Captain Tench Tilghman, a member of his staff, and tipped his head to squint at the sun, calculating the time. It was not yet ten o’clock in bright, frigid sunlight.
Fitzgerald nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Steam rose from the hot hide of the bone-weary horse, crusted with sweat and lather that had built up around the bridle and saddle blanket. Fitzgerald handed the reins to the nearest sergeant, gave orders, then swung back onto his own smoking, jaded bay gelding and raised it to a trot. He stood tall in the stirrups to search through the press of Continental Army soldiers for the ones wearing the gold braid of officers on their black tricorned hats.
For a time Washington stood in the patches of light snow, vapor rising from his face. His eyes were narrowed, chin set like granite as he studied the smoldering remains of the campus of the College of New Jersey at Princeton. His heart swelled as he watched the men of his command working their way through the scattered buildings and the nearby homes, searching for British stores or ammunition—anything they could find that might ease their desperate need for food, clothing, gunpowder, blankets, medicine. They carried wooden packing crates from homes and warehouses and rolled barrels of flour and salt meat out into the streets to be picked up by their wagons.
Half naked—most without shoes—sick—starved—scarecrows—falling asleep on their feet—Trenton eight days ago—now here at Princeton—victorious in both engagements—been marching and in battle for two days and two nights—outgunned, outmanned—how did they win?—how?—only heaven knows—and only the Almighty knows what sustains them.
He turned slightly to look at Nassau Hall, the largest structure in the thirteen American states. The stained glass windows on the first floor were smashed out. The tall, double, heavy oak doors hung at odd angles on their great wrought-iron hinges, blackened and splintered by American cannon wheeled into place by Alexander Hamilton and Joseph Moulder when British soldiers barricaded themselves inside and refused to surrender. Wisps of smoke still rose from the wreckage. One cannonball had ripped through the doors, passed the length of the great assembly hall, and struck a huge painting of King George II, removing his head as neatly as if done by a sword.
The soldiers slowed as they passed Washington, nodding, mumbling “Gen’l” to pay their respects. None remembered they should salute, nor did Washington remind them. In their minds they were seeing him once again as he wheeled his big gray horse away from General Sullivan’s command south of Princeton and kicked her to a stampede gait across open ground for more than a mile, cape flying, before he brought her to a lathered, sliding halt in front of the terrified Pennsylvania militia. Alone, he lead them into the battle that routed the line of British redcoats commanded by Colonel Francis Mawhood. At battle’s end, there were bullet holes in his cape, but not one musketball had touched him.
No, sir, the musketball or cannonball can’t be made that’ll git him—not him—not Gen’l Washington—right out there where it’s thickest—nary a sign of concern—just sits that big gray horse like he was borned there—leadin’ right into them British redcoats and their bayonets with bullets whistlin’ everywhere like angry hornets an’ not one touchin’ him—no, sir, not Gen’l Washington.
They could never speak their innermost thoughts to his face. All they could do was nod their heads as they passed and mumble, “Gen’l.”
He turned at the sound of a horse cantering in behind, and Tilghman spoke as he reined in his gelding.
“The officers are on their way, sir—the ones I could find.”
They came on tired horses: Sullivan, Hitchcock, Greene, St. Clair, Cadwalader, Knox, Wilkinson. Washington stood tall to peer over the college campus searching for others, then turned to Tilghman in question.
“That’s all I could find, sir.”
Washington led them into Nassau Hall, to a classroom with shattered window glass littering the floor and a table and chairs thrown about at random by the terrified British. He set the table upright while the men gathered the chairs and sat down. They saw the fear in him as he spoke.
“Has anyone seen General Mercer?” he asked.
General Hugh Mercer, Washington’s oldest and dearest friend, was missing from the gathering of officers.
General Cadwalader could not meet Washington’s eyes as he answered quietly: “General Mercer’s aide, Major Armstrong, gave me a message. He found General Mercer near a barn on the Clark farm. His skull is broken. He has more than fifteen bayonet wounds. Major Armstrong and Dr. Rush are there with him in the Clark home, but there’s little hope, sir. He’s dying.”
“Haslet?”
General Nathanael Greene answered. “A bullet through his head. He felt nothing.”
For just a moment the men saw the searing pain in Washington before he cleared his throat and continued, giving general instructions in rapid order.
Get all the British stores you can find—especially gunpowder—burn what we can’t take. General Knox, find the Morven estate where General Cornwallis had his headquarters—search it for every record you can find. Get a casualty count—the British have a large store of supplies and munitions at Brunswick, along with seventy thousand pounds sterling—a very tempting prize. We could arrive in Brunswick before morning—I want your opinion—Can this army march all night tonight and fight in the morning?
The answers were unanimous. Doubtful—utterly fatigued—it would be tragic to lose all we’ve won so far.
Washington heaved a great sigh. “I con
cur. I have considered where we should go for winter quarters. It appears to me that Morristown would be our best choice. The town is small, located on a plateau at the foot of the Thimble Mountains. Nearby, on the east, is another ridge, the Watchung Mountains. They run from the Raritan River on the south to the northern borders of New Jersey. From outside those mountains, the only access to Morristown is through narrow passes that we can easily defend should the British attempt an attack. We will be just thirty miles from New York City, where we can keep a constant watch on General Howe and his movements. I recommend that we winter there to allow our men to regain their strength, and to refit the army for spring. Are there other suggestions?”
There were none.
* * * * *
Morristown, New Jersey
Early May 1777
“Sir, the officers are assembled. The council can begin at your convenience.”
Washington raised his head, pushed his chair back from the small corner table, and stood. “Thank you, Major. I’ll come at once.” He folded the large map he had been studying as Tilghman nodded and backed out of the private study. Washington heard the steady cadence of his boot heels fade as the major walked down the narrow hallway toward the library.
The faint, sweet scent of mountain laurels hung light in the warmth of the late spring air as Washington followed, stepped into the library, closed the door, and set the dead bolt. Chairs scraped as the officers seated around the long, plain table stood, came to full attention, and waited.
“Be seated, gentlemen.” He laid the folded map on the table as they settled back onto their chairs. He glanced quickly up and down the table. Knox, St. Clair, Sullivan, Cadwalader, Hitchcock, Wilkinson, and Hamilton.
He came directly to it.
“I have lately received information that will likely affect all plans for the coming summer campaign.” He saw in their eyes that they had already heard.
He continued: “Lord Germain of his Majesty’s government has sent General John Burgoyne together with an army to arrive momentarily in Quebec. Roughly half British regulars, half German Hessians.”
He waited while brief comments dwindled and died. British regulars were bad enough; Hessians, with their long mustaches and pigtails, were feared, hated.
Washington went on. “General Burgoyne’s orders are to proceed south on Lake Champlain, then the Hudson River, take Fort Ticonderoga and continue south to Albany, then east to New York. With the cooperation of General Howe from New York, and Colonel St. Leger from Fort Stanwix, it is apparently the British plan to cut the thirteen states into two sections. Divide the northern states from the southern, then reduce them to British control one at a time.”
He paused for a moment, waiting for comments, but there were none. The great convoy of British ships bringing Burgoyne and his command across the Atlantic, with the largest number of cannon ever recorded in British history to support such an expedition, had been too well observed in international waters by too many ships of all flags. When the British ships flying the Union Jack turned west into the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, there was no doubt who they were or where they were bound. The sightings were reported in New York and Boston harbors, and within days, the news of the armada had spread throughout New England.
Eyes downcast, Washington continued: “I see you already knew. The problem this gives us is critical.” He raised his eyes. “I’m asking for your counsel. Do we remain here to try to stop General Howe if he moves north up the Hudson to meet and join General Burgoyne? Or do we go north to stop General Burgoyne, and leave New York and the seacoast to General Howe? If we remain here to engage General Howe, can the northern militia stop Burgoyne from coming on down the Hudson, behind us? This army cannot survive if we’re required to fight both Burgoyne and Howe at the same time, one behind us, the other in front.”
Washington paused. He could not hide the deep fatigue that crept into his eyes and the deepening lines in his face. The officers saw it, and they averted their eyes to stare down at their hands on the table in front of them. In the dead silence they could hear the birds outside arguing over territorial rights and the buzz of the new crop of spring insects. No one spoke.
The commander in chief took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “May I state my own convictions? I am certain that General Howe intends taking Philadelphia during this summer campaign, one way or another. If that is true, then the questions are, when and how? Before General Burgoyne comes down the Hudson? After? And if General Howe does go after Philadelphia, will it be by land or by sea? Common sense suggests an overland march from New York to Philadelphia. Ninety miles. But General Howe’s brother, Lord Admiral Richard Howe, has more than four hundred British transports and warships at anchor in New York Harbor. If General Howe is concerned about exposing his army to us in a ninety-mile overland march, he could load most of his men onto the ships and sail up the Delaware to within sixteen miles of Philadelphia.”
He stopped speaking to rub at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “That raises the question, is Philadelphia strategically important to us? I’m well aware of the rules. If you capture the capital city of your enemy, you’ve won the war. But, gentlemen, we’re fighting a new kind of war. We’re making new rules as we go, and this old rule must be discarded if we are to survive. Congress is keenly aware that if Philadelphia falls, the British will crow like roosters, and our people will feel a loss all out of proportion to its actual value in the war. Congress will be very reluctant to let Philadelphia fall, but fortunately for them they are not the ones who will be doing the fighting. We will. They can be gone from Philadelphia in half an hour should the need arise and continue their work in any one of half a dozen other cities. Losing Philadelphia would not be good, but its loss certainly won’t be fatal.”
Again he paused, and every officer moved in his chair as the weight of what was descending on their army, and on the United States, settled in. Washington continued:
“One heavy question is, what can our army do to stop General Howe, no matter what he does? We are outnumbered about four to one. We have far too few cannon. Half the men are still barefoot. True, some French arms and munitions are trickling in, but some of our soldiers are still without muskets. And we are low on gunpowder, food, blankets, and medicine.”
He dropped his hands to his sides. “It’s obvious that we cannot commit ourselves to a battle on open level ground. Nor can we commit to a battle on their terms. We can only harass them and wait for a time and place that will favor us.” Again he paused, searching for words. The officers seated around the table leaned forward, sensing that his silence and the obvious care in selecting his next statement signaled that all he had said was but prologue. The live-or-die issue was coming.
Washington spoke slowly. “Should Burgoyne be successful in joining Howe in New York, I fear for our entire revolution.”
There it was! The chairs creaked as each officer leaned back, mouth pursed, eyes narrowed in deep concentration. Every man in the room knew that if Burgoyne and Howe were to succeed in joining forces, the days of the Continental Army would be numbered.
“Questions? Comments?” General Washington was standing straight, silently waiting.
General Enos Hitchcock cleared his throat. “Did I hear that St. Leger has Joseph Brant gathering a force of Mohawk Indians to take Fort Stanwix? And then come east, on down the Mohawk River to join Burgoyne?”
Washington nodded. “You did. It’s true.”
Murmuring broke out as Hitchcock continued. “Joseph Brant and a thousand Mohawk up there in those woods could inflict more damage on us than five thousand British or Hessians. Any way to stop him?”
Washington slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ll try to get help from the Iroquois, but no one knows if we’ll succeed. The Iroquois have a confederation, a written constitution, that binds them together, and they’ve taken an oath to remain neutral. They won’t fight for either side. Last Monday, May fifth, I sent two men north to do what
they can.”
Hitchcock was incredulous. “Two men? To stop Brant?”
Washington nodded. “One is a white man who was raised Iroquois for seventeen years—speaks all Iroquois dialects, including Mohawk, as well as French, fluently. A remarkable fighting man. I’ve used him before. He works with another man. Do you recall our cannon blowing open the doors of Nassau Hall at Princeton to clear out the British barricaded inside? The first two men through the smashed doors are the ones I’ve sent north.”
Each officer fell silent, searching his memory to identify the two men. Suddenly Knox, the corpulent twenty-six-year-old former bookseller turned soldier, and now general in command of artillery for the Continental Army, straightened in his chair. “I was there with those cannon, sir. Did one of those men have a tomahawk?”
A rare, faint smile crossed Washington’s face. “Yes.”
Knox leaned back, grinning at the remembrance of the tall man following the husky one, sprinting through the shattered, smoking doors, swinging his black tomahawk over his head, and the high, shrill Iroquois war cry echoing inside the cavernous assembly hall.
Hitchcock continued. “Did he say how he intends stopping Brant? Or the Mohawk? Is he planning an assassination? Murder Brant, and the whole Mohawk nation could rise against us.”
“No, no assassination. He knows Brant, and Brant knows him. It’s possible this man can do something. In my judgment, it would have been a mistake not to send him.”
“The names of those two?”
“Private Eli Stroud and Corporal Billy Weems. Both from the Massachusetts Regiment.”
Hitchcock settled back in his chair and said quietly, “Two men? To stop Brant and his Mohawk?” He shrugged and softly blew air through rounded lips as he shook his head in disbelief.
Washington leaned forward, arms stiff, palms flat on the table. “Coming back to the issue before us, I need your advice. What can be done to prevent Generals Burgoyne and Howe from joining forces and dividing the States?”