by Ron Carter
Eli watched the eyes of the nine men as they struggled to their feet. Not far from mutiny.
The sun was two hours past its zenith when a tall, angular man working a handsaw coughed, then coughed again, and suddenly sat down. He began to tremble, then shake uncontrollably. Eli unbuckled his weapons belt and unbuttoned the three large bone buttons on his wolf-skin coat. He shrugged it off and wrapped it around the shoulders of the man. The man started to protest, but Eli raised the parka to cover his long hair. The others saw the look in the man’s face as he stared up at Eli, and they turned away for a moment. Eli buckled his weapons belt back around his middle and pulled it tight over his long, deerskin hunting shirt with the quill and beadwork across the shoulders and breast, picked up his ax, and resumed the work of notching logs.
Long shadows were slanting eastward when Turlock suddenly straightened. “What have I been thinkin’ about? Gen’l Washington’ll want a report from you. You been to see him yet?”
Eli shook his head.
Billy interrupted. “I’ve made a report. He knows most of it.”
Eli looked at Turlock. “Why does he need to hear it twice?”
“That isn’t the point. Point is, he might have some questions. Or maybe somethin’ else he wants you to do. He’s the one sent you, he’s the one you report back to. Follow the river clean up to the west end of camp, more’n two miles. Can’t miss his command tent. You git movin’.”
Eli left his coat wrapped about the sick man, and with his rifle in his right hand he left at the ground-eating trot he had learned from living seven years as an Iroquois warrior. He held the pace through camp, with half the men he passed lifting their heads to watch him. A few of them nervously reached for their muskets at the sight of his beaded leather shirt and breeches and the wolf-skin, knee-high moccasins. He passed the King of Prussia Tavern, crossed Valley Creek on the narrow bridge, and slowed as he recognized Washington’s command tent to his right, not far from the frozen Schuylkill River.
The pickets both raised their muskets, and one challenged.
“Who comes there?”
“Eli Stroud. Returning from a scout up north. I ought to report to General Washington.”
“One of his aides can take your report.”
“My sergeant said General Washington. He’s the one that sent me.”
The picket sneered. “You saying Gen’l Washington himself gave you your orders? What’s your rank?”
“I’m not an officer. I don’t have a rank. I’m a scout. Maybe I’m a private.”
The picket cocked his musket. “Gen’l Washington don’t give orders to privates. I think we better put you under arrest.”
In one fluid motion, the muzzle of Eli’s rifle, held belt high in his right hand, was raised to bear on the center of the picket’s chest, and the sound of the hammer coming back to full cock sounded loud in the freezing air. Eli’s left hand had not moved. He spoke evenly, nearly casually.
“Might want to tell the general that Scout Eli Stroud is reporting back from the north. Three Rivers. Fort Ticonderoga. The Saratoga fight.”
Both pickets started, wide-eyed, and the one with the cocked musket spoke. “You was up there? With Gates and Arnold? We heard things. Did Arnold lead that charge? At that redoubt?”
“He did. Tell the general. Eli Stroud.”
The picket uncocked his musket.
Eli uncocked and lowered his rifle. “With a lot of other good men. Tell the general.”
The picket disappeared into the tent and thirty seconds later held the flap aside and took Eli’s rifle as he entered.
There was no fire. Alexander Hamilton sat on one side of a worktable, with General Washington seated at the head. Both men stood to face Eli, their breath rising as vapor in the frigid air. Hamilton carefully studied him as Washington spoke.
“Scout Eli Stroud?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard remarkable things about your work up north. It is good to know you’re back. Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“This is Colonel Alexander Hamilton, one of my aides.”
Eli remembered Hamilton and his cannon at Trenton and Princeton. He nodded, and a quizzical expression flitted over Hamilton’s face. Hasn’t anyone ever taught this man to salute?
Washington continued. “Your companion reported several weeks ago. I take it you remained there?”
“With my sister. We were separated when the Iroquois took me. I hadn’t seen her for seventeen years. I hope it wasn’t a wrong thing—to stay for a while.”
“It was right. Is she well?”
Washington saw the look that came into Eli’s eyes, and the general felt the warmth it brought to his heart.
“She’s fine. Married. Two children. Happy. Good husband. Captain Benjamin Fielding, New Hampshire Militia. He was with us at the Saratoga fight.”
For a moment Washington paused to savor the story before he went on. “Your companion—Corporal Weems?—reported earlier. I know about your activities at Three Rivers, and with the Mohawk. Chief Joseph. General Benedict Arnold—your stratagem with that demented man—Han Yost?”
“Yes.”
“Were you with Corporal Weems at Saratoga?”
“Yes.”
“At the Breymann redoubt?”
“With Billy and Benedict Arnold.”
“You saw it?”
“Billy and I were inside the redoubt with the Hessians.”
“Remarkable.”
“I got to ask one thing. Is Gates getting credit for taking down Burgoyne?”
Hamilton tensed, waiting for the answer.
“As it now stands, he is receiving much praise. Yes.”
Eli’s voice rose, and there was lightning in his eyes. “It’s wrong. He never got within four miles of the fight. It was Arnold. He turned that whole campaign. I was there when his horse went down and pinned his broken leg. Still had his sword in his hand. Still shouting to us to go on, take the redoubt. And we did. It was him. Not Gates.”
Hamilton grimaced. Washington’s back stiffened. “I’ve heard. The truth is a stubborn thing. Somehow it will all come out. There is one thing I would like to hear from you.”
Eli waited. Washington’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Considering conditions as they saw them, did either General Schuyler or General St. Clair make major errors in the actions they took? Giving up Fort Ticonderoga and retreating?”
Eli’s answer was instant. “No. Neither man. What they did saved most of the army they had, and that army is what stopped Burgoyne, finally. They did right.”
For several seconds Washington remained silent. “Is there anything else?”
“About up north? I doubt it. If Billy reported, you likely heard it all. But I got a few other questions.”
Washington’s eyebrows arched. “Yes?”
Eli hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Good men out there, freezing. Starving. Sick. No shoes. No clothes. What’s happened?”
Washington drew a great breath and slowly let it out. “It seems Congress and the Pennsylvania Supreme Executive Council do not understand the conditions we are facing here. We receive encouragement and instruction from them, but little else. There is nothing more I can say.”
“There’s food out in the countryside. Cattle. I came through it on my way here. Can’t they get it to us?”
“The administration is young. Just learning its business. We have to be patient.”
“Two more months of this and half those men will be dead. Or gone.”
Washington returned his steady gaze and said nothing.
“Have you asked some of those men in Congress to come here and see?”
“I have, and they did. They made their report, and little happened.”
Eli shifted his weight and took control of a rising anger. “It’s a hard thing to see these men the way they are, when there’s grain and cattle and clothes out there.”
“I agree. The problem is, how do we get it?
”
“Isn’t there some kind of law—I’ve heard about it—that you can just take it if you have to?”
“Yes, there is. And maybe we’ll have to do it. But this whole revolution is being fought to determine what powers government should and should not have.”
Eli slowly shook his head, baffled, struggling. “Congress gave you an army and orders to drive out the British, but they won’t feed or clothe your army, and they won’t let you do it yourself. Is that where we are?”
“It isn’t that Congress won’t take care of us. The hard truth is, they can’t. The Articles of Confederation give them no such powers.”
“Then someone better take a hard look at those articles.”
Washington remained silent. Hamilton shifted his weight, eyes intently following both Washington and Eli.
Suddenly Eli wiped at his mouth. “I’ve said too much . . . I . . . it’s just that seeing those men out there . . . I shouldn’t have said so much.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No. Yes. One thing. If there’s anything I can do—if I can go scout out the British, where their supplies are—maybe capture some of them—try to find a way to get food and clothes and blankets—anything.”
“I understand. Should that be needed you will hear from me.”
“That’s all I have to say.”
“Your report will go into the orderly book. You are dismissed.”
Eli turned and walked out without looking back. He took his rifle from the picket and walked east in the early shades of a purple dusk. There were fires with shoeless, coatless men huddled around in the bitter cold, without blankets, and there were no cook kettles in sight. It was full dark when he approached the fire where Billy and Turlock and their squad was gathered. Eli’s wolf-skin coat lay on a log nearby. He picked it up and had it on when he stopped beside Billy, who was staring into the dancing flames.
“Where’s the man who had this?”
Billy shook his head, and Turlock answered quietly.
“He died.”
Back in his tent, Washington rose from his table, no longer able to remain seated with the smoldering anger that had ridden him raw for days. For a time he paced as he struggled to maintain a tenuous control of the outrage that surged each time he saw in his mind’s eye his men, slowly dying for want of everything it took to maintain an army in winter. It was approaching midnight before he sat down on his cot, fully dressed, including his cloak, unbuckled the spurs from his boots, tossed them clattering on the table, and lay down.
Rose and yellow colors were high in the eastern sky when the voice of Alexander Hamilton wakened him.
“Sir, I have a report you should read.”
Washington sat up, stiff from the cold, squinting as his mind came back to reality.
Hamilton handed him the paper, and Washington read the scrolled handwriting.
“Yesterday a column of British cavalry and infantry marched from Philadelphia towards Derby on what is certainly a foraging expedition.”
He looked at Hamilton. “Have you read this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We must march against that column. Give my orders to our general officers to have their commands ready to march at once. Have Colonel Laurens help you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Washington broke ice from the top of the water in the porcelain pitcher on the washstand in the corner, poured a basin half full, shaved, washed himself, and was ready when Hamilton returned. John Laurens was with him.
Hamilton cleared his throat and came straight to it.
“Sir, we notified all general officers of your orders. To a man, their response was the same.” He paused to lick at dry, chapped lips. “Each reported that his command is unable to move from this camp.”
Washington stood in shock. Never in his life had he received such a report, not from this army, nor from any other in which he had served, as far back as the French and Indian War in 1755, when he had fought side by side with General Braddock! An army that cannot leave camp? Preposterous! Unthinkable!
“Tell them I rescind the order and then you return here. I will have a document that must be delivered at once.”
Laurens looked at Hamilton, and Hamilton looked at Laurens, and both men pivoted and walked out.
Washington sat down at his worktable and in seconds had quill and paper at hand. He wrote with very little pause.
December 22, 1777
To the Hnble Henry Laurens, President, Congress of the United States:
Sir:
It is with infinite pain and concern that I must again dwell on the state of the Commissary’s department. I do not know from what cause this alarming deficiency or rather total failure of supplies arises, but unless more vigorous exertions and better regulations take place, and immediately, this Army must dissolve. The presently vacant offices of Quartermaster General and Commissary General should be filled as soon as possible. Unless some great and capital change suddenly takes place in those departments, this army must inevitably be reduced to one or other of these three things: starve, dissolve, or disperse, in order to obtain subsistence in the best manner they can. This is not an exaggerated picture. Vinegar to combat scurvy, and other such articles we see none of. As of this date, no one in this camp has had food for two days. Our stores are depleted. There is no meat, no flour, no vegetables. Men are starving to death daily. Sickness is becoming epidemic. Soap is nearly non existent. Few men have more than one shirt, many only the moiety of, and some none at all. An exceeding number of the troops are confined to hospitals and to local farmhouses for no other reason than a want of shoes and other clothing. By a field return this day made, no less than 2,898 men are now in camp unfit for duty because they are barefoot and otherwise naked. Exclusive of the troops sent to Wilmington with General Smallwood some time ago, those remaining in this camp are reduced to the perilous number of no more than 8,200, though more than 17,000 men were carried on the paper returns of the army.
Regarding the Pennsylvania Supreme Executive Council and their declared wish that this army should attack the enemy, I can assure those Gentlemen that it is a much easier and less distressing thing to draw remonstrances in a comfortable room by a good fireside than to occupy a cold, bleak hill, and sleep under frost and snow without clothes or blankets. However, although the Council seems to have little feeling for the naked and distressed soldiers, I feel superabundantly for them, and from my soul pity those miseries they are now suffering, which it is neither in my power to relieve nor prevent.
He stopped, laid down his quill, and reread all he had written. He saw his anger leaping off the paper, and he did not care. If Congress, or the Pennsylvania Supreme Executive Council, took offense, then let them do as they wished. If they should find it necessary to relieve him as the commander in chief, then so be it. At that moment there was but one thought in Washington’s mind: His men had suffered enough. He would defy both the national Congress and the Pennsylvania Council, if he must, to feed and clothe his army.
He signed and folded the paper, sealed it, and stood. “Colonel Hamilton, are you there?”
Hamilton pushed through the tent flap. “Yes, sir?”
“Find the horse and man most fit for travel and have this missive delivered to Henry Laurens at York. He is currently president of our national Congress.”
“I know who he is, sir. May I suggest, sir, that the man most fit for travel is probably Scout Eli Stroud. He has eaten regularly until when he arrived yesterday, and he has clothing that will turn the cold.”
“Find him a good horse.”
“Yes, sir.” Hamilton turned to leave, then paused. “Sir, hasn’t anyone ever taught Stroud to salute?”
Washington’s face clouded for a moment. “Unfortunately, no. But, notwithstanding, I wish I had a thousand more just like him.”
Notes
The horrible condition of the Continental Army at Valley Forge in late December is again partially chronicled. Six
thousand soldiers lacked blankets, half lacked shoes, few had coats and were wearing rags. See Martin, Private Yankee Doodle, pp. 100–4
On December 21, 1777, pursuant to information that a British column was marching toward the small town of Derby on an expedition to obtain food and supplies, Washington ordered his army to prepare to march to meet it. He was informed that the Continental Army was incapable of marching out of camp. Stunned, shocked, and angered, Washington sat at his table on December 22–23 and wrote his now famous letter to Congress, addressing it to the president, Henry Laurens, who was father of Washington’s trusted aide, John Laurens. The text of his writing is presented herein, most of it verbatim, and clearly shows Washington’s anger at both Congress and the Pennsylvania Supreme Executive Council for their failure to sustain the army. It is from this letter that the phrase “a cold, bleak hill” is taken, the title of this volume of the series. See Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, pp. 9–10; Wildes, Valley Forge, p. 153; Freeman, Washington, p. 172.
Valley Forge
December 26, 1777
CHAPTER XXI
* * *
The snow that began falling on December twenty-fifth held through the night. Dawn on December twenty-sixth was little more than a change from blackness to deep gray as a thick blanket of clouds shrouded the world, and the great flakes continued to fall in dead air, steadily piling in the forests and the fields and on the winding dirt roads.
Paunchy, balding, aging Dr. Leonard Folsom, major in the Continental Army, sat on the driver’s seat of the lead wagon of his column of eight as it moved west, intently watching the snow-covered ground ahead for mounds, listening to the muffled sounds of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels plowing through six inches of snow. Too many times in the past thirty days, the road-weary horses, pulling the heavy wagons, had stumbled on logs or tree stumps or stones hidden beneath the white blanket that covered the narrow, rutted, winding road. Twice wagons had slammed into rocks hard enough to shatter wheels, one in front, two in back. The first time it had cost them half a day to unload the sealed wooden crates of medicines and surgical equipment, cut and trim a sapling pine, roll a rock into place to serve as a fulcrum, and lever the wagon off the ground, one side at a time. Then they labored in the cold and wet to remove the master bolts, pull the three undamaged wheels, lash them to the side of Folsom’s lead wagon, load the crated medical supplies on the remaining wagons, abandon the wrecked one, and push on. The second time they used the spare wheels from the abandoned wagon at the cost of another half a day. Folsom had no more half-days to spare, so he watched the road for potential hazards.