by Ron Carter
Congress resolved to attempt to invade Canada with 1,200 men and intended to appoint General Lafayette to be in command, with General Conway second in command. Lafayette informed Congress it would be a serious mistake, both to invade Canada and to appoint Conway his second in command. The expedition never materialized. Much to his relief, Lafayette was ordered to return to Valley Forge. Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 220.
General Washington wrote to British General Howe with an offer to exchange prisoners. General Howe responded. The quotations of their exchange are accurate. Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, p. 34.
The list of items discovered by Eli Stroud on his scouting mission is accurate, including those found in abundance, as well as the fact that the lack of wagons and horses and of roads frozen so hard that they would destroy wagons made it impossible to bring the critically needed supplies to Valley Forge. The description of freighters dumping brine from salt beef and dumping barrels of flour into the wagon beds is accurate. Food prices were highly inflated. Jackson, Valley Forge: Pinnacle of Courage, pp. 85–86; Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 438; Wildes, Valley Forge, p. 172.
The letter attributed to Colonal Francis Dana is accurate and quoted verbatim in part. Wildes, Valley Forge, p. 167.
To stop the local farmers from selling their flour to the British for gold and not to the Americans for paper money, General Washington ordered the flour mills of the offenders disabled by sawing off the wooden teeth that drove the grinding stone. Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, p. 31.
General Anthony Wayne was deeply discouraged by conditions at Valley Forge, and it was rumored he was considering leaving. Wildes, Valley Forge, p. 170.
Valley Forge
February 10, 1778
CHAPTER XXV
* * *
She came in her coach on the old Gulph Road, angling west through the frozen, rolling Pennsylvania hills of Valley Forge. With an armed, mounted guard riding on all four sides, the coach traveled slowly to keep from sweating the horses in the frigid air. Steam rose from their hides and trailed from their dilated nostrils as they picked their way through the rock-hard ruts, past the divisions commanded by General Poor on the left and General Glover on the right, on past the old schoolhouse at the junction of Gulph Road and Baptist Road.
Scarcely five feet tall, plump, face plain and round, blue eyes, quiet, industrious, always busy, tirelessly helping her husband and his soldiers, she was Martha Custis Washington, wife of General George Washington. Widowed with four children, two of whom died, she had married Washington and become completely devoted to him, and he to her. It was she who had put herself at risk to visit her husband wherever the fortunes of war took him, whenever she could. At Baltimore, Cambridge, Eltham, Fredericksburg, Hartford, New Windsor, Philadelphia, Williamsburg, and now at Valley Forge. No one knew how many sewing bees she had arranged to sew shirts and knit socks for the soldiers or how many projects she had sponsored to gather food. No one could tell how many times she had gone into the hospitals with meals she had prepared with her own hands and patiently fed to the crippled soldiers, then sat at their bedsides to read to them or kneel to pray for them. Over time and in her own calm way, she had earned the adoration, the love, and the respect of the soldiers in the Continental Army. No one knew who first turned the title or when it came to be, but she was known, not as Mrs. Washington or the general’s wife; with a reverence reserved only for her, she was “Lady Washington” to her army.
The coach jolted on in the late February morning, between the divisions commanded by General Maxwell on the left and General Huntington on the right. By her orders the curtains in the coach had been thrown open so she could see the country and the soldiers as she passed. With a blanket drawn about her legs and feet, she sat wide-eyed, appalled at the sight of hollow-cheek, scarecrow-like soldiers with sunken eyes on all sides. Those who recognized the coach or her stopped working to come to attention, paying their silent respects as the coach lurched on. The frozen, half-decayed carcasses of dead horses were scattered about. A wagon rolled past, traveling in the opposite direction, and Lady Washington gasped when she recognized an arm thrust above the sideboard, fingers black and clutching, frozen solid. She turned to peer, and there were half a dozen legs, hard as stone, feet bare and black, thrust out the back of the wagon box. Inside were the remains of fourteen soldiers dressed in rags and tatters, who had frozen to death. She thought she had seen all the horrors war could inflict on men, but never had she seen anything like the world through which she was now moving.
She stared, her face a blank, her mouth compressed to a straight line as the coach moved on, across Inner Line Drive, past the junction with Port Kennedy Road, and on to the junction with Valley Road, where they turned right and suddenly were there, in front of the Potts home, just past the small spread of buildings in which General Washington had established his personal quarters and command offices.
Lady Washington was stunned. Gathered in rank and file, a company of Virginia soldiers raised a raucous welcome, with Colonel John Laurens at the head. The men’s tumultuous shout rang in the woods as the door opened and General Washington strode out to the waiting coach. Without a word he opened the carriage door, extended his hand, and brought his lady out on his arm.
The soldiers quieted as the general, six feet and three inches tall, leaned forward to gather his beloved Martha, just under five feet, close to him. He held her for a moment, kissed her on the cheek, and turned, beaming, to escort her into the home. Behind him, some of the soldiers wiped at their eyes as Laurens turned to the Virginia Regiment. “You are dismissed. Return to your duties.”
Two pickets took their positions beside the door. By order of Laurens, the general and his lady were going to have a little time to talk before the crushing duties of commanding a starving, freezing army once again made their demands.
At noon Washington walked back to his office in the headquarters building. At one o’clock Alexander Hamilton came to inform him, “Lady Washington requests your company for dinner, sir. She has prepared a meal.”
Hamilton could not miss the glow in Washington’s eyes and the lightness of his step as he strode back to the home and into the small, austere dining room where Martha waited, her plain, round face beaming. A fire burned in the stone fireplace, casting a little heat into the bare-walled room. The chairs were straight-backed hardwood. The single sofa was covered with aging, scarred leather. Washington held his wife’s chair to seat her, then took his own. They bowed their heads for a silent grace, then Martha passed him a bowl of steaming potatoes.
“The rooms are quite small,” she said.
He nodded as he cut the potatoes and added butter.
Martha continued, “But they’re solid, and with a few little things they’ll be cheerful. And I see you’ve built a small dining hall at the rear of the building. For entertaining?”
“Yes. Dining and entertaining, should we ever find time and substance to do so.” Her face sobered. “I’ve seen the conditions in camp.” She shook her head, and there was compassion in her eyes. “Terrible.”
Washington met her with his direct gaze. “The worst I have ever seen.”
“What’s happened?”
“In concise terms, we lack everything on which an army depends to survive. Food, blankets, clothing, shoes, money, wagons—everything. We’ll talk more of it when we have more time.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
The tall, gaunt man paused. “Yes. Go out among the soldiers as you always do. I’ve never known greater need for it.”
She stared into his eyes for a time, nodded her head faintly, and passed him the platter of hot sliced mutton.
“Would it be troublesome for me to visit the hospitals this afternoon? Would I need an escort?”
He shook his head. “I will arrange it. When do you wish to go?”
“Two o’clock?”
“Colonel Alexander Hamilton will escort yo
u.” He paused for a moment. “It has been some time since food tasted so good.” His eyes met hers, and she blushed and bowed her head. “It’s just mutton and potatoes.”
At five minutes past two o’clock Hamilton took the hand and arm of Lady Washington and watched her put her foot on the iron cleat, then hoist herself inside the coach to take her seat. He quickly followed to take his place opposite her.
He pointed. “Madam, the foot warmer is filled with hot bricks. Your feet will remain warm.”
Martha smiled. “Oh, thank you.” She placed her feet on the iron lid, with the hundreds of small holes in rows, then spread the blanket over her legs and feet. “That’s much better.”
Hamilton leaned from the window to give hand signals, the coach driver slapped the reins on the rumps of the wheel horses and gigged at them, and the coach lurched into motion, the wheels crunching in the frozen snow and ice. Four mounted escort soldiers tapped spur, and their mounts swung in around the coach, one leading, one following, and one on each side. They rode with their muskets across their thighs, behind the saddle bow.
The driver swung the coach around to Gulph Road, then turned left onto the Port Kennedy Road. They proceeded past the grounds where General McIntosh had his division camped, past a rifle pit where green soldiers were trained in the proper use of musket and cannon, and past the junction with Baptist Road, where the driver reined the coach in at a small wooden structure on the south side of the road, less than four hundred yards from the tiny stone home that served as personal quarters for General Varnum. The horses blew and stamped their impatience as Hamilton reached to help Lady Washington from the coach.
“This building was a barn that we have been forced to use as a hospital. I am sorry it is so wanting, but the general’s orders were that you should see this winter camp in its true light. I hope you understand.” He opened the door and stepped aside to allow Lady Washington to enter the cold, dimly lit room first.
The stench of filthy bodies and decaying human flesh and the sounds of human beings in agony flooded over them. For several seconds neither of them could breathe, and both of them backed up one step and covered their noses and mouths with a hand. Lady Washington coughed, then moved through the doorway and waited for her eyes to adjust to the twilight, while she listened to the moaning and an occasional shriek.
The sole source of heat was a large, black stove that had been moved into the far end of the barn, where a hole had been cut in the barn ceiling for the pipe. The stalls and stanchions had been torn out, and makeshift cots of wood and canvas were placed everywhere one would fit on the bare dirt floor. Blankets had been laid beneath the cots, and emaciated, sunken-eyed men lay on the blankets, some with raging fever, others with fingers or toes or feet or hands missing. Most had open sores every place their skin could be seen. Sores were in their beards, clogging them with running pus and putrid matter.
Six women, hair awry, exhausted beyond words, gaped at Lady Washington as she slowly made her way between cots, staring in shock at soldiers who looked back with dead, flat, sunken eyes that had lost all hope. A tall, wiry woman came forward to meet them.
Hamilton cleared his throat. “I am Colonel Hamilton. On orders of General Washington, I am escorting Lady Martha Washington on a tour of the hospitals. I trust you will cooperate.”
Martha placed a hand on his arm, and he fell silent. She turned to the nurse. “Who is in charge here?”
“Dr. Parkinson.”
“Is he present?”
“He’s asleep at the rear of the building. By the stove.”
“How many men are you caring for here?”
“One hundred four. We lost six more this morning.”
Martha nodded. “Taken away in a wagon?”
“Yes.”
“I saw the wagon. Do you have any medicines?”
“Almost none. Only enough for the most severe cases.”
“Some of these men have fever?”
“Yes. Typhus. Maybe smallpox. You should not be here.”
Martha brushed it aside. “Do you have enough food?”
“Hardly any. Half these men would recover if we could feed them properly.”
“Thank you. May I continue through the room?”
Twenty minutes later Hamilton again opened the door, and the two emerged from the tormented room into the clear, frigid fresh air, and each drew a deep breath, then coughed as the freezing air hit their lungs.
Hamilton spoke. “I apologize, madam, that you had to be witness to that . . . that deplorable scene inside.”
“Let’s continue on.”
The coach lurched forward, jostling, wrenching over ruts and ridges frozen hard as rocks, with Lady Washington locked in silence as she stared out the window at the men and at the camp. She began to count the men with bare legs and bare feet and ten minutes later stopped. In spite of the snow, more than half had no shoes or long trousers. Most were dressed in ragged clothing that did little to turn the freezing cold. Few had coats. Almost none had hats.
The driver leaned over to call to Hamilton through the window. “We’re coming to the big hospital, sir, but the wagon’s parked in front.”
Hamilton’s eyebrows raised. “The wagon?”
“Yes, sir. The one . . . you might want to take a look, sir.”
Hamilton leaned his head far out the window and quickly understood the driver’s reluctance to speak. Standing in front of the two-storied stone building that had once been a great stable for high-bred horses, with a loft for one hundred tons of hay, was a wagon with high sideboards, hitched to four horses blowing steam, anxious to be on with the day’s work. Two soldiers were walking from the front door of the building to the wagon with a stretcher between them, and on the stretcher, uncovered, was the shriveled, shrunken body of a dead soldier. Without ceremony the two soldiers dumped the remains into the wagon and started back into the building for the next corpse.
The soldiers had given the vehicle the infamous name “the Meat Wagon.”
Hamilton called up to the driver. “Stop the coach here and wait until it’s gone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Martha leaned forward. “What seems to be in the way?”
Hamilton cleared his throat. “Madam . . . uh . . . they are removing the remains of those who have passed on.”
“The wagon?”
“Yes.”
Martha moved to the window and leaned out. For ten minutes she silently watched while four more bodies were brought out and loaded into the wagon. With the last one loaded, one soldier called up to the driver, “That’s all for now,” and the wagon rolled out.
Martha settled back into her seat without a word, and she studied her folded hands in her lap until her coach stopped at the front door. Hamilton assisted her to the ground, and they walked side by side to the front door of the massive building. He opened it into the dark interior of the converted stable, and once again they were assaulted by the putrid odor and the sounds of human suffering.
They had not gone three steps into the morass of cots and men when they were stopped by a high, shrill shriek. “No! No! Don’t! Don’t!” Instantly the voice rose to a heartbreaking crescendo that filled the building and then trailed off, lost in the ongoing chorus of pitiful moans from men lost in the nightmare world of fever deliriums and unrelenting pain.
Martha peered through the gloom to the far end of the massive room where two lanterns hanging from the ceiling cast their yellow light onto the body of a man lying on a rough-sawn pine table. A man was leaning over the table, working with his hands. After several seconds, he straightened, shook his head, and took a step backward. Opposite him, a woman drew a sheet forward, backed away from the table, and began to make her way through the jumble of men and cots toward the door behind Martha. She was less than ten feet from Martha before she raised her head and saw her.
Hamilton spoke. “Are we interfering?”
The woman shook her head. “No. It’s over.”
&nb
sp; “I’m Colonel Alexander Hamilton. I am escorting Lady Martha Washington on a tour of our medical facilities under orders of General Washington.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry. My name is Mary Flint. I am surgical assistant to Dr. Folsom.”
Martha exclaimed, “Child, you’re shaking! Something’s wrong.”
Mary’s dark eyes filled with tears. “That man—the one you heard scream—has died. Dr. Folsom had to remove most of his leg, and his body would not stand the shock. I . . . I’ve seen it before, many times, but this is the fourth man we’ve lost on the surgical table since yesterday afternoon. I just . . . I’m sorry . . . it doesn’t usually affect me this way.” She wiped at her dark eyes, squared her shoulders, and straightened her spine.
Martha stared into her face. The cheeks were hollow, the eyes sunken. “You’re ill! When did you last rest? Eat?”
Mary shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. There’s just so much to do . . . endless.”
“It does matter! How many sick do you have in this building?”
“Two hundred ninety seven left.”
“Why, there’s barely room for half that! How long has it been like this?”
“Since we got here. Over a month. It’s getting worse.” Suddenly Mary reached to grasp Martha’s arm. “Oh! You shouldn’t be in this room. We have smallpox and typhus! You must leave!”
Martha raised her eyes at the approach of Dr. Folsom, behind Mary, and Folsom spoke. “I’m Dr. Folsom. May I know who you are?”
Hamilton broke in. “I’m Colonel Hamilton. I am escorting Lady Martha Washington through our hospitals. Orders of General Washington.”
Folsom bowed. “I am honored. I would happily shake hands, but as you can see, I am not prepared to do so.” His shirtsleeves were splattered with blood, and there were traces still on his hands. He looked directly at Martha. “I regret that you will have to leave at once. There are three contagious diseases in this room, and I will not be responsible for allowing you to contract any of them.”