by Ron Carter
He walked past the crude table and the two-tiered bunks on both sides of the room to stand his musket against the wall and drop to his haunches close to the glowing coals. He stirred them with a piece of kindling, then added three more sticks and waited for the first hesitant flames to come licking. There was a small, muffled sound as the sap in the green wood began to run, boiling and popping. He stood, stepped to the nearest upper bunk on the west wall, and reached up to shake the form lying covered by an old army tent. His whisper was hoarse, too loud.
“Dunson, your duty.”
The form stirred, and a head appeared from beneath the dirty folds of the battered canvas tent. Caleb shivered as he lifted his legs over the side to drop to the chill dirt floor. He was wearing the same summer clothing he had on the day he joined the Continental Army eight months earlier. Then it had been whole and had fit him; now it was in tatters and hung loose on his wasted, shrunken frame.
In silence O’Malley shrugged out of the only winter coat in the hut and handed it to Caleb, who pulled it on, then waited while O’Malley sat on a pine bench to unlace the shoes all twelve men shared for picket duty. They were too small, but Caleb had learned to leave the laces loose and endure the pinch for the two hours he had to wear them. He stood, tied a strip of cloth taken from the trousers of a dead man over his head to protect his ears, turned the coat collar up, picked up his musket from his bunk, and walked out the door into the blackness. The snow crunched as he walked to his picket post beneath the unnumbered frozen stars overhead, feeling the bite of the air in his lungs. He felt his face begin to numb, and knew white spots were already forming. He raised a hand to rub his cheeks and forehead, then quickly thrust it back into the coat pocket.
At his picket post he leaned his musket against the trunk of a pine tree and wrapped his arms around himself for what warmth they would give. To remain still was to freeze to death, so he kept moving, shuffling his feet, head pulled low inside the coat collar. Brutal experience had taught him that time became unbearable torture if he allowed himself to dwell on the pain of the deadly cold, and he forced his thoughts away from the silence and the misery and the black loneliness.
The bread—Lady Washington—no meat, no butter, just bread—golden brown—like Moses and the manna from heaven—one slice per man in the company—holding it in my mouth—don’t chew and swallow because it would be gone—so good—so good—like Mother’s—how is Mother?—Brigitte?—Prissy?—Adam?—home in bed—a warm bed—a warm breakfast—what will it be this morning?—oatmeal porridge?—Mother will cook oatmeal porridge this morning—steaming—thick—with dried apple slices soft and sweet mixed in—cinnamon on top—thick cream poured on—hot cider—a big pitcher of hot, sweet apple cider—
He raised a hand to rub again at his numb face, and his thoughts changed direction.
Where’s Matthew?—alive?—wounded?—crippled?—captured?—at sea?—Matthew—and Billy—so unalike and so alike—odd—where’s Billy?—alive?—in this camp somewhere?—haven’t gone to find him—why?—why haven’t I gone?—would he know I’m here?—no, he doesn’t know—if he did he would have found me—because Billy is Billy, and that’s the kind of thing he’d do—so why haven’t I gone to find him?—something wrong with me?—
The sound of feet crunching snow brought him up short, and he reached with numb fingers for his musket. He fumbled it, and it fell onto the hard, frozen snow. He scooped it up and turned toward the incoming sound.
“Who comes there?” He had spoken it softly, but it seemed loud—too loud—in the great, frozen silence.
“Nancy.”
Nancy—Nancy! The realization flooded through him like a great, warm, comforting wave. He watched as she appeared, a dark form moving through the trees. He dropped his musket and gathered her in his arms, and he held her while she wrapped her arms about him and laid her head against his chest. They stood without moving for a long time before he spoke.
“It’s so cold. You shouldn’t have come.”
“I had to. I brought you something.” She brought a jar from the folds of her heavy cape and put it in his hands. “Broth. Beef broth.”
He loosened the clasp and removed the lid and raised it steaming to sip at the rich, brown mix.
“Where did you get beef?”
“Lady Washington brought a small piece of brisket to the hospital. We boiled it. I saved this much of the broth for you.”
He worked on it for several seconds and could not remember anything that had ever tasted better. “You shouldn’t have. You should have eaten it. You need your strength.”
She shook her head. “You need it. You’ve lost twenty pounds! Have you looked at yourself?”
He shook his head.
“And I brought you this.” She thrust a folded paper into his hands. “A letter I wrote. In answer to yours.”
He raised startled eyes and peered into her face, a pale whiteness inside her parka. “You wrote this? For me?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll read it when it’s light enough. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“You needn’t say anything.”
He finished the broth, locked the lid back on the heavy pewter jar, and handed it to her. “Nothing ever tasted better. I’m grateful. And for the letter.” He pushed it inside his coat.
“Some of the soldiers in the hospital are talking. Is it true the army may be leaving here?” He could hear the earnestness in her voice.
“Not that I’ve heard. A lot of officers are resigning. Hundreds of soldiers are leaving—just walking away. Some regiments can’t muster one full company. It’s been two days since most of us have seen food of any kind—meat, flour—anything. No wagons, no horses, nothing. I’ve heard that General Washington is going to send General Wayne—Anthony Wayne—out to get whatever he can find. Take it at bayonet point if he has to. Congress gave Washington authority to do it. Some officers are talking against General Washington, but so far it’s only been talk.”
“What! Talk against General Washington? Impossible! Who?”
“Gates. Conway. Dr. Rush. Mifflin. A few others. But so far no one has said General Washington will be replaced, and no one has said we’re going to leave.”
“You’re sure? I . . . can’t stand the thought of you leaving.”
“I wrote up the standing orders in the orderly book yesterday. This army could not withstand a heavy attack right now but not a word about leaving.”
“Thank heaven.”
He drew her to him once again, and she reached to kiss him.
He spoke reluctantly. “You go on back. You’ll freeze out here.”
“Answer my letter when you can.”
“I will. I promise. Now go.”
He watched her slender, dark form disappear into the trees, and he stood for a time, until the sound of her feet breaking through the hard-crusted snow had faded and died. He reached once more inside his coat to feel the letter, remembering the thrill of holding her, of the brief touch as she kissed him, the sound of concern in her voice. He was still filled with the wonder of her when the black of the eastern skyline imperceptibly became deep purple and the morning star faded. His hand was inside his coat holding the letter when the purple yielded to the first glow of a sun not yet risen, and for a few moments the heavens were caught in the magic between night and day as the light skiff of clouds burst into a vast play of reds and golds and yellows. Then the first arc of the sun rose above the barren trees, the colors faded, and were gone, and another day of starvation and sickness and hopelessness was upon Valley Forge.
Before he picked up his musket to leave his picket post, Caleb unfolded the letter with a tender reverence and read the meticulously scrolled lines.
My Dear Caleb:
Dare I refer to you as ‘my Caleb’? Something inside will not let me say less. I only know that my day is not complete without the thought, and that being able to see you at night as you stand your picket duty is what gives me the will and
the strength to work through the trials of the day. I look forward to the time when this wretched war will have ended and the joy and happiness of normal and peaceful life come once again. Until then, I am so proud of you for all you do in the cause of liberty. I beg of you, take care of your health, and know that I am thinking of you always.
With deep affection,
Nancy Fremont.
My Caleb. My dear Caleb. I am thinking of you always. With affection—deep affection. That’s what she wrote. To me. Me.
For a time the cold and the hunger and the hopelessness were forgotten as the words ran over and over again, through his brain and his heart. He took one last look at the letter and read the signature one more time—the beautifully scripted N and F and the carefully formed letters of her name. Then he gently folded the paper and worked it inside the coat, picked up his musket, and walked southwest, back to the hut, and pushed through the door.
He breathed shallow at the stench inside and squinted at the smoke from the green wood in the fireplace. A small smoke-blackened kettle was settled among the coals, steaming. O’Malley glanced at him and gestured at the pot.
“We got the bones of a dead partridge we found in there, and part of the innards of a froze horse, and what flour we could scrape from the empty sack, and one big chunk of hardtack Ellison found in the bottom of his knapsack, mold and all. Tossed it all in with the snow water. Get out your bowl. We’re about to have breakfast.”
Caleb took the coat and shoes off and laid them on his bunk and got his worn wooden bowl. The men sat at the table or hunkered down near the fire and held the warmth of their bowls in both hands and nursed the steaming gruel, waiting for it to cool enough to sip at it. The mold on the hardtack and the horse parts came strong, tainting the greasy mix with a stink and a taste that turned their stomachs. Two men gagged and waited for a time before they tried again. Caleb got his portion down and sat for ten seconds battling the need to wretch it all up onto the cold dirt floor. He swallowed hard and held it.
O’Malley took a deep breath. “This is the third day without rations. I don’t know when we’ll see more food. If this goes on, I’ll go see Gen’l Washington.”
All heads turned to him in surprise, and he saw the sores on their faces and in their beards, and he felt the stab of pain at the fading of hope in their eyes. Caleb stared into his own empty bowl while the next man struggled into the coat and sat down to tie the shoes onto his bare feet.
O’Malley set his bowl clattering on the table. “We got to set this hut in order, and then we’ll go out to get firewood and water from the creek. We got a new officer comin’ in today. German. Likely to have some sort of armed guard. If he comes this way we’re supposed to come to attention and salute.”
“German? On our side?”
“Yes. Supposed to have fought with Frederick. Frederick the Great. Whoever that was. Anyway, remember to come to attention if he passes.”
The wood crew loaded three axes onto the pine sled. Two of the men slipped looped ropes over their shoulders and leaned into them. The sled runners cracked loose from the ice, and the crew trudged south, away from the river, toward the green-black of the woods, with the empty sled, six feet by ten feet, cutting a path through the frozen snow. They had gone only twenty yards when the sounds of a running horse brought them to a stop. They watched a rider with lieutenant’s epaulets on his shoulders rein a laboring sorrel mare in from the east and continue past them toward the west at a run.
O’Malley shook his head in disgust. “He’s goin’ to break that horse down in this weather if he keeps that up.”
The crew had covered another fifteen yards when Caleb stopped and turned his head to listen. O’Malley slowed.
“What’s wrong?”
Caleb pointed east. “Bells. Hear ’em? Sleigh bells.”
The whole crew stopped to peer east, and O’Malley’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement as the jangle of distant sleigh bells grew louder in the crisp, thin air. Then, half a mile away, they saw two armed, uniformed riders emerge from the trees side by side, and behind them a great, open sleigh drawn by two heavy, black Percheron draft horses. Arched over the broad withers of the horses was a heavy metal frame, anchored in the horse collars and harnesses, from which dangled twenty-four bells, ringing incessantly to announce their approach. The huge sleigh was shiny black, with wrought-iron decoration on the driver’s seat and down both sides. Behind the sleigh, four more draft horses drew a large, ornately decorated black coach. An armed rider rode on either side of the sleigh, and two more rode behind.
Not one man in the wood crew uttered a word as the strange entourage approached. No one thought to give the order to stand at attention as the horses trotted past, pulling the two vehicles. Every man gaped in utter astonishment at the sight of the passengers riding in the open sleigh.
A round-faced man, the obvious leader, sat in the forward-facing seat, dressed in a new buff and blue American officer’s uniform, a spotless tricorn set squarely on his sizable head. His silk-lined cape was thrown back, and on his left breast they could see row upon row of medals and decorations clustered about a huge one that sparkled golden in the morning sunlight. On the seat next to him was a tall, lean, long-snouted, perfectly groomed Italian greyhound. O’Malley’s mouth dropped open, and Caleb’s head jerked forward in disbelief. Seated next to the greyhound was a uniformed officer with his hawkish face set straight forward, looking neither right nor left. Facing them in the opposite seat were three more officers, all sitting like statues.
The wood crew, dressed in tatters, feet wrapped in rags, watched the sleigh pass, then turned to watch the enclosed coach rumble past, with the trotting horses blowing steam and vapor that trailed four feet behind their heads. They could see at least six dark figures inside, all officers, but nothing more. The two mounted, armed guards bringing up the rear followed ten yards behind, and then the entire column turned to follow the trail through camp and disappeared behind a neck of trees.
For five seconds the wood crew neither moved nor spoke. Then O’Malley shifted his feet in the crackling snow and wiped the frost from his beard.
“Was that the German officer we’re waiting for? If it is, either he’s in for a big surprise or we are. I wonder what Gen’l Washington’s going to think.”
Nearly three miles to the west the rider pulled the sweating sorrel mare to a sliding stop before the austere stone headquarters building, answered the pickets’ challenge, and was immediately admitted to General Washington’s office.
“Sir, that German general you spoke of is about fifteen minutes behind me. He has a sleigh and a coach, both full of officers, with about six mounted, armed guards. General Picket sent me to tell you. He thought you should know.”
Washington’s eyes narrowed in question. Sleigh? Coach? Armed escort? He spoke to the young lieutenant. “I take it he is coming here.”
“He is. Sir, I left my horse in front, sweating bad. I should tend to her in this cold.”
“You are dismissed. Would you tell the orderly in the foyer to have Colonels Hamilton and Laurens in my office at once?”
“Yes, sir.”
Quickly Washington selected four sheets of paper from those stacked on the corner of his desk, glanced at the signatures, selected one, and read steadily.
“ . . . Lieutenant General Friedrich Ludolf Gerhard Wilhelm Augustin von Steuben . . . aide-de-camp to King Frederick the Great of Prussia, the greatest soldier of his age . . . born in Magdeburg, Prussia, 1730 . . . son of an army engineer . . . educated in Breslau by Jesuits . . . an officer in the Prussian army at age seventeen. . . . Discharged in 1762 . . . served as chamberlain to the court of Hohnenzollermn-Hechingen . . . fell into debt . . . traveled to Paris . . . met Benjamin Franklin . . . Franklin obtained a loan from Beaumarchais . . . sent him to America . . . extraordinary abilities as an officer . . . capable of organizing and training the Continental Army . . . concur altogether with Ambassador Franklin’s assessment of the contri
bution he can make to our cause . . . recommend he be given instant commission as an officer and assigned to the duties related to training our soldiery.”
Washington glanced once more at the signature of Silas Deane.
A brisk rap at the door brought Washington’s head up. “Who comes?”
“Colonel Hamilton, sir, and Colonel Laurens.”
“Enter.”
The door opened, and the two aides entered to stand at attention, awaiting orders.
“Be seated. I have just received word that General von Steuben is arriving shortly. You both speak French and have some grasp of German. Would you remain here in the event interpreters are needed?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Have either of you read the information I received regarding General von Steuben?”
“From Ambassador Franklin and Silas Deane? Part of it, sir.”
Washington slid the Deane letter across the table. “Read this while I review Ambassador Franklin’s letter.”
Silence held as the men pored over the documents, while Washington carefully read every word from Ben Franklin, one of the shrewdest judges of men of his time.
“. . . has no grandiose perceptions of his own abilities . . . self-effacing . . . protege of Frederick the Great of Prussia . . . well grounded in all things pertaining to military matters . . . has the unmistakable bearing of an officer . . . awarded the prestigious Order of Baden knighthood . . . wishes to be judged on merit and not on birth or reputation . . . in my judgment capable of contributing mightily to the advancement of the Continental Army. . . . Signed, yr obdn’t serv’t Benjamin Franklin.”
Washington pushed Franklin’s letter across the table and picked up the two-page letter signed by von Steuben himself.