by Ron Carter
“I didn’t hear about the fog.”
“Before that Howe made like he was headed for Reading to capture all our stores, and Washington went up there to stop him. Howe doubled back quick and sent Cornwallis in to take Philadelphia, and he did it without firing a shot.”
Billy shook his head. “I was told.”
“That gets us down to right now. Rumor is, Gen’l Conway’s goin’ behind Washington’s back to tell Congress that Washington’s not the man to lead the army. Seems Conway thinks he’s the one ought to have command. Him or Gates. And there’s some officers and a lot of Congressmen givin’ that some thought.”
“Gates?”
“Horatio Gates.”
“The one at Saratoga?”
“The same.”
Billy shook his head violently. “Not him. He stayed in his tent four miles from the lines the whole time. Benedict Arnold won that battle. Eli and I were with Arnold at the Breymann redoubt. Got his horse shot out from under him and his left leg broken by a musketball, but he led the charge that took the redoubt and got us in behind the British lines. Three days later Burgoyne surrendered. If Gates is getting the credit, someone’s got it all backwards.”
“Well, he is. Some are calling him our ‘savior.’”
“He wasn’t. It was Arnold.”
“Nobody’s talkin’ about Arnold.”
“Somebody better set them straight.”
“How do you set ’em straight? We’re findin’ out that dealin’ with politicians isn’t like dealin’ with regular humans. Their heads get lost goin’ so many directions that there isn’t no way to make ’em see the truth. Like that French general, du Coudray. Deane sent him over here from France with fourteen bodyguards and three officers to protect him, and a written agreement that we had to pay him more’n any other officer in this army, ’cept Gen’l Washington hisself, because he won’t take pay. Only expenses. Congress was told to make this Coudray a major general before he’d served a day in the army, and Congress figured to do it. When the rest of our generals heard about it, we dang near had a mutiny. Greene and Knox and Sullivan said if Coudray was given rank above them, after what they been through for America, they was goin’ to resign their commissions an’ quit.”
Billy was gaping, wide-eyed. “What’s Washington saying?”
“As it turned out, Washington didn’t have to say anything. Last September, the nineteenth, I think, this Coudray showed up at the Schuylkill Ferry dressed like a peacock and insisted he wasn’t goin’ to dismount from that high-blooded nag he was ridin’, just to get on the ferry. So he tried to ride the horse onto the boat, and it spooked. Went crazy. Reared up and busted through the railing and both Coudray and the horse went into the river. The horse came up, but we never saw Coudray again. That’s a pretty sorry story, but there’s a lot of people that smile when they tell it.”
“Congress have anything to say about it?”
“Not about Coudray, but there’s others. Lately it looks like that other French officer—the one I mentioned—Thomas Conway—is givin’ Congress a lot of reasons why he ought to have Washington’s position. And I hear Congress is startin’ to listen. Like I said, those politicians got their heads someplace most of us out here can’t understand. What they need is about six months out here, eatin’ pig belly an’ walkin’ around with feet that’s froze and bloody, and havin’ musketballs and grapeshot buzzin’ like hornets, and watchin’ men on both sides of ’em droppin’ dead.”
Pain crossed Billy’s face. “I watched your men before it got dark. Half of them bedded down with only pine boughs under and on top. No blankets. No shoes.”
“Wait ’til mornin’. We got just enough horses and oxen to pull the wagons, but none to pull the cannon. They starved to death, and we ate most of ’em. These men have to buckle theirselves into the harnesses to bring the cannon. You can track this army by the blood in the snow, from their feet. Sometimes I see all this, and I get this strong feelin’ we ought to go get those politicians at bayonet point and bring ’em here, and in the strongest bonds of love give ’em an education in what this war is all about. Can’t think of anything that would do more for gettin’ it over with.”
The lonesome sound of a distant drum sounding tattoo brought both men’s heads around to stare into the blackness. They listened while thoughts came flooding of how many times soldiers had gone to their beds with those sounds floating over battlefields or camps or hospitals. The last echo died in the forest, and still they sat, suddenly seized by an unexpected melancholy that held them for a time.
Finally Turlock stirred. “I got to make my rounds. My blanket’s over there. Bed down next to it. You’re still a corporal. Ought to be enough pine boughs for both of us.”
He stood. “Tomorrow mornin’, first thing, you got to report to Gen’l Washington. It was him sent you and Eli up north. He’ll be expecting you.”
Notes
By November 1777, the American army was in desperate need of food, blankets, shoes, and clothing. The suffering that followed them to Valley Forge had begun. See Freeman, Washington, p. 363.
The finding of the lost sister of Eli Stroud, together with her husband and two children, is described in volume 4, The Hand of Providence, chapter XXXII.
The Iroquois name for Joseph Brant was Thayendanegea. The name of the chief god of the Iroquois was Taronhiawagon. See Graymont, The Iroquois in the American Revolution, pp. 52–53; Hale, The Iroquois Book of Rites, p. 74.
The meeting between Eli Stroud and Chief Joseph Brant, the stratagem of using Han Yost to influence the Mohawk to leave the British, and their leaving are set forth in volume 4, The Hand of Providence, chapter XXVIII.
General Horatio Gates was commander in chief of the American forces on the Hudson River to engage British General John Burgoyne. That Gates never left his tent but rather let General Benedict Arnold lead the American forces in battle, was described in volume 4, The Hand of Providence, chapter XXXI.
A much disliked French General named du Coudray refused to dismount his horse when boarding the Schuylkill River ferry. The horse reared overboard, and Coudray drowned, which tragedy saved much acrimony and anger among senior American officers. See Freeman, Washington, p. 364; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 215.
The blatant criticism by General Thomas Conway of General Washington was becoming notorious by November 1777. Conway wished to have Washington’s position. See Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 216.
Command tent of General Washington, Continental Army on the march, moving toward the Schuylkill River, southeastern Pennsylvania
Late November 1777
CHAPTER XVII
* * *
Soldiers passing the command tent saw the misshapen shadow cast on the canvas wall by the yellow light of a single lantern on the worktable within. General Washington was sitting, leaning forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands, not moving. When the drum sounded tattoo, he slowly raised his head, listening while the drummer tapped out the rhythm and the echoes died in the dark forest.
He rose from his chair and walked out the flap of his tent, towering over the two pickets, who separated to allow him free passage. Vapor trailed behind his head as he walked a short distance and stopped, watching soldiers lay down on pine boughs and then pull more branches over themselves—their only protection from the bitter cold of the night.
How many thousands have no blankets?—no shoes?—leaving blood in the snow—what did they find to eat for supper?—when did they get their last pay?—how long can this go on before they mutiny?
The familiar, deep, galling frustration rose in Washington’s breast, and he turned back to his tent to enter without a word to the pickets. There was no fire inside, and he sat down at his worktable, still wearing his heavy cape and boots against the cold. Wisps of vapor rose from his breathing as he interlaced stiff, cold fingers on the table before him and struggled to force a focus to the jumble of thoughts that filled
his head.
A rustle at the tent entrance brought his head around, and he heard the picket at the tent flap challenge, and the voice of his aide Colonel John Laurens, answer. He rose and stepped rapidly to the tent flap to draw it back. His two aides, Colonel Alexander Hamilton and Colonel John Laurens, were standing in the snow.
“Gentlemen, do you need to see me?”
Hamilton spoke. “Yes, sir.”
Washington held the flap open, they entered, and Washington gestured them into chairs facing his worktable.
“I’m sorry I do not have refreshment here to offer you.”
Laurens shrugged. “No matter. We thought you would like to know that Congress has completed the Articles of Confederation. A copy was delivered for you a few minutes ago.” He held out a sealed document.
For a moment Washington stared at the document. The first such writing in the recorded history of man. With a sense of reverence he accepted it and laid it carefully on his worktable.
Laurens continued. “Copies have been sent to all thirteen states for ratification. I don’t recall such an event, ever. Remarkable.”
Washington spoke quietly. “Yes, it is. I wonder how long it will survive. The world thought King Arthur’s Round Table was the answer and then the Magna Carta. Both failed.”
For several seconds Laurens studied the face of his commander in chief. In the subdued light of the single lantern, Washington’s eyes were sunken shadows, and the deep lines in his forehead and around his mouth were softened. An aura of great weariness, bordering on melancholy, reached out from him. Both Laurens and Hamilton understood and accepted the fact that Washington must maintain a wall between himself and those he commanded—a sense of distance, of decorum, of protocol—as must all men whose duty it is to order other men to their deaths. They also knew that on Washington’s side of that wall, where few men were allowed to venture, Washington was a deeply compassionate man who felt the pain of every soldier in the Continental Army. At times when Washington was unaware, both men had seen him with his head bowed, beseeching the Almighty to intercede for his men, and they had seen him with his shoulders shaking as he wept for them.
And both Hamilton and Laurens also knew that sometimes such a man needed to talk with others who understood and had the skill to reach over the wall for a few moments without abusing the privilege. Was this such a time for Washington? They broke off their gaze, and Laurens answered.
“I might disagree with that, sir. The germ of Arthur’s idea has never died. The rights spelled out in the Magna Carta have never been out of the minds of men, no matter how bad things got. Maybe that’s what those two events were all about.”
Washington leaned back in his chair, startled by the unexpected contradiction from Laurens. He was aware that both men possessed unusual intelligence and a deep understanding of their proper place in the scheme of the military. If these two aides, whom he trusted implicitly, were pushing beyond the well-established barriers, there was a reason. Washington moved out to meet them. He flexed his cold fingers before he spoke.
“You think they were prologue?”
Laurens eyes narrowed. “I think they were sent by a Higher Hand. Each in its time. Each to prepare for what was to come. I don’t think either one failed. I think both did exactly what the Almighty meant them to do.”
“Which was what?”
“Prepare for what was coming.”
Washington’s mind made the leap, and he picked up the sealed Articles of Confederation. “These Articles?”
Hamilton interrupted, eyes glistening. “They’re the next step.”
“After the Magna Carta?”
“That, and the Declaration of Independence. Yes.”
Washington stared into Hamilton’s face for a long time before he spoke. “You think there’s more to come?”
Hamilton drew and released a great breath. “Yes.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I only hope it comes in my lifetime, and I hope I know it when I see it.”
All three men knew they were now in an arena seldom entered, and each sensed he had nothing to fear from the others. Washington leaned forward, one arm on the table before him. Never had the two aides seen the expression that came onto his face. There was an intense hunger in his eyes, almost as though he were pleading for the answer to an all-consuming inner torment.
Washington spoke. “I’ve thought . . . felt . . . many times that the Almighty . . .” He paused, and both aides saw the momentary hesitancy to permit himself to be seen as other men, with doubts and fears, and questions and flaws. After a moment, Washington continued, “I’ve felt the hand of the Almighty many times in this revolution. Have you?”
Laurens’s response was instant, emphatic. “Yes. This is His work, not ours.”
Washington dropped his eyes to his hands on the table, and Laurens saw a look of profound relief come into his face. He watched him working to find words that would not harm the unexpected thing that had developed between them.
“Even when we . . . when we’ve made many mistakes?”
Hamilton heard Washington’s spoken words, but he also heard the silent ones Washington could not speak. When things were darkest, when the sins and errors of men plunged the Revolution into the pit, when battles were lost that should have been won, when those all around were nearing open rebellion—officers resigning, conniving against each other, seeking to destroy their leaders to sate their own ambitions—when the common men in the rank and file were dying for want of food and shelter, was the Almighty aware? Was He angered? Had He turned his back? Was all lost?
Hamilton heard it all and answered softly.
“We bring most of our grief on ourselves. But when we do, and it seems that everything is lost, He’s there. Maybe that’s when He’s most among us. This Revolution is in His hands. One step at a time, He’s prepared the way, and He’ll never fail us. Failure will come only if we abandon Him.”
Washington lowered his face for a moment, and they saw the muscles of his jaw form small ridges along his jawline. An unexpected feeling rose within each man, and for a time no one moved or spoke. The cold and misery of a small tent in the Pennsylvania wilderness were forgotten as the impression spread throughout their beings, filling them with a sureness that dispelled all doubt, all fears. The two aides waited, trying to gauge if they had been too bold. Washington shifted in his chair.
“You know about General Nash? And the others?” Washington asked.
They both sensed the long-denied need in Washington to talk, and Laurens answered.
“You mean General Nash’s death? From wounds at Brandywine? I know. I regret it very much. He was a good officer.” Laurens eased back in his chair. “But I don’t know what you meant about the others.”
Washington replied, “General Sullivan. Stephen. Maxwell. Wayne. De Borre.”
“I heard about General Stephen. Facing charges for drunkenness and dereliction at Germantown?” Laurens asked.
“Yes. Maxwell the same.”
“Sullivan? Wayne?”
Washington’s voice was flat. “Sullivan’s charged with misconduct for failing to scout the terrain he had to defend at Germantown and for not maintaining patrols that would have prevented the British from coming in behind him as they did. A repeat of the battle of Long Island. General Wayne must explain to Congress how the British could surprise him so completely at Paoli.” Washington’s eyes dropped. “The Paoli Massacre. Terrible.”
“De Borre?”
“Intoxication and dereliction in the face of the enemy. He resigned. Congress has appointed a committee to investigate and hear the other four matters.”
Hamilton slowly shook his head. “Another committee? They can talk more and accomplish less than any governmental function I’ve ever heard of. I fear for the generals if some committee is after them. I’ve lately thought the best thing we could do for these committees is require them to come here with us and carry a musket for six months. March
when these men march. Eat what they eat. Freeze with them. Be sick with them.” He caught himself and paused for a moment to let his anger cool.
Washington observed, “I hardly recognize the Congress now in session. Almost none of the original Congressmen remain.” The general looked down at his hands for a moment. “Only seven.”
Laurens looked at him, waiting.
“John and Sam Adams, John Hancock, Eliphalet Dyer, James Duane, Samuel Chase, and Richard Lee. Sam Chase is leaving now, and the three senior Massachusetts members will be gone shortly. That will leave but two who were there at the beginning. Those who were there from the beginning—the ones who understand the foundations on which this revolution rests—are nearly all gone. But we do have one faithful supporter. Your father, Henry Laurens.”
Laurens sighed. “Father believes in this army. But it’s true we’re losing the ones who know. And the ones who are replacing them . . . ? His voice trailed off for a moment. “It seems they don’t know why they’re there. They get lost in their own interests. Some are starting to listen to Conway and Gates.”
Laurens raised his eyes to Washington’s for a moment, testing to see if he had opened a subject too painful for Washington.
Washington quietly said, “I’ve heard.”
Laurens pushed on. “I’d like to know if Wilkinson knew what he was stirring up when he told McWilliams about the statement Conway made. Did Wilkinson intend that McWilliams would take it to his commander?—Lord Stirling?—and that Stirling would pass it on to you?”
Washington’s eyes never left Laurens. “I’ve wondered.”
Hamilton cleared his throat. “There’s talk both ways. A lot of officers and most in Congress don’t know the truth about what happened, so they invent.” Hamilton stopped and waited, hoping Washington understood what he was after. Washington did.
“Wilkinson is aide-de-camp to General Gates. At this moment Gates enjoys high favor with Congress because of the victory at Saratoga. It apparently is of no consequence to the new congressmen, that Arnold, and not Gates, was responsible for winning that battle. Gates has missed no opportunity to promote himself with anyone in Congress who will listen. He chose not to report the Saratoga campaign to me as his commander in chief, but rather, he sent it directly to Congress. Conway likewise wrote to Congress in terms highly critical of me and presumed to let that body know he is prepared to assume my position.”