Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  “. . . much honored by the reception extended me by Ambassador Benjamin Franklin and his associate Silas Deane . . . it was they who urged and arranged for my passage to America . . . am aware of the letters they have written in my behalf . . . they have somewhat overstated my credentials. . . .”

  Washington paused for a moment, then read the next statement slowly, carefully, putting every word in proper context.

  “If the distinguished ranks in which I have served in Europe should be an obstacle, I had rather serve under your Excellency as a volunteer than to be a subject of discontent to such deserving officers as have already distinguished themselves amongst you. Signed, your obedient servant, Baron von Steuben.”

  Slowly Washington straightened and slid the letter across the desk to Hamilton and Laurens. “The last paragraph is most revealing. This man is willing to commence service without rank and without pay. Remarkable. Does that bring back remembrance of the last European officer Franklin personally recommended?”

  The answer was instant. “General Lafayette.”

  Washington nodded. “This man—Baron von Steuben—appears to have possibilities.”

  The sound of rapid footsteps in the hallway was followed by a brisk rap at the door.

  “Who comes?”

  “Your orderly, sir.”

  “Enter.”

  The door swung open and Washington started at the look of profound astonishment on the face of his orderly. “What has happened?” Washington demanded. “Is something wrong?”

  “Sir, a German officer has arrived with a . . . uh . . . rather large delegation of . . . uh . . . people, sir, and a . . . a great big dog.”

  Washington’s eyes widened. Hamilton grinned. Laurens laughed out loud.

  “Bring in the officer and one interpreter if he wishes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The young orderly walked out without closing the door, and they heard his hesitant footsteps march down the plain, hardwood hallway, stop, then proceed back, accompanied by the cadence of clicking boot heels. The orderly entered the room, stepped to one side at attention, and Baron von Steuben entered the room.

  He walked ramrod straight, chest out, chin tucked in, the living epitome of military bearing, all of which gave the impression he was taller than his five feet nine and one-half inches. He had regular features, a large nose, ruddy cheeks, and gray eyes, which Washington would learn were capable of all ranges of human emotions, from humor to pinpoints that froze men in their tracks. Behind him came Pierre Etioenne Du Ponceau, in the uniform of a brigadier general, to act as von Steuben’s interpreter.

  The Baron halted, clacked his boot heels together, and snapped his arm up in a perfect salute. “Baron von Steuben at your service, sir.”

  Washington returned the salute. “It is my honor to receive you.”

  Von Steuben’s arm dropped. “May I present my interpreter, Brigadier General Du Ponceau.”

  Du Ponceau bowed.

  Washington said, “I am honored. May I present my two aides, Colonels Laurens and Hamilton.”

  Both von Steuben and Du Ponceau bowed stiffly, and the two Americans returned it.

  “Please be seated.”

  Von Steuben gathered his coattails into his lap and sat down, followed by Du Ponceau, while Hamilton and Laurens took their chairs beside the general’s desk. Washington dispensed with the formalities rapidly. “I trust your voyage and your trip here were acceptable.”

  “Excellent.”

  Du Ponceau was interpreting for von Steuben. Laurens was listening and quietly nodding his approval as Du Ponceau spoke.

  “I am certain you understand that I am unable to extend you an appointment without the approval of our Congress.”

  “I understand. I do not wish to cause conflict. I will be happy to serve as a volunteer in any capacity pleasing to yourself, Excellency.”

  Washington leaned forward in his chair. “Your offer is most gratifying.”

  Von Steuben’s expression did not change. “I do not desire rank until I have learned the language and the genius and the manners of the people.”

  Hamilton leaned forward, unsure he had heard correctly. Laurens turned to look at Washington. General Washington’s eyes narrowed, and for five seconds no one made a sound as the three Americans accepted the profound implications of von Steuben’s statement.

  This man intended taking on the rigors of learning American ways and of qualifying himself before he would accept rank or pay. If his notions of training an army in the craft of military discipline were built on the same principle by demanding that the soldiers begin by learning the rock-bottom foundations . . .

  Washington drew a deep breath. “General, I cannot—”

  Von Steuben interrupted, “Captain, not general.”

  Washington reached for the letters. “I believe the letters indicate . . .”

  “They are incorrect. I was a captain in the Prussian army when I served on the staff of General Frederick. When his staff was dissolved, someone listed my rank as general. I gave no such permission, nor was it correct.”

  Again the three Americans fell silent, stunned by the candor of this man, who sat like a statue and would not allow himself to be thought more than he was.

  Washington continued. “Until such time as Congress grants rank and pay, may I request that you move about this military camp, making such observations as you deem proper in any particulars you see fit. Make a written summary and submit it to me. Would that be agreeable?”

  Von Steuben bobbed his head once. “It would be my great honor.”

  Washington turned to Laurens. “I will dictate proposed orders to that effect for my signature. When they’re signed, deliver them personally to Baron von Steuben.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington turned to Hamilton. “Would you find suitable quarters for Baron von Steuben and his staff?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington turned back to von Steuben. “Is there anything else I can do for you at this time, sir?”

  “Accept my thanks. I am deeply honored.”

  Washington stood, and the others stood with him. “Then, sir, would you follow Colonel Hamilton? He will show you to your quarters.”

  Washington was caught in deep thought as he listened to the footsteps fading down the hallway. Laurens remained and said, “I wonder what Baron von Steuben will think of the terrible condition of our army. This camp.”

  For several seconds Washington stared out the window. “I hope Dr. Franklin was right about him. We shall see.”

  In front of the headquarters building, von Steuben stepped into the sleigh with the tall, gaunt Italian greyhound at his side on a leash. Hamilton, and the balance of his entourage, stood waiting for him to take his seat before they followed. Von Steuben gathered his heavy cloak and started to sit when movement to the south caught his eye, and he straightened, eyes narrowed as he peered. A knot of soldiers had gathered less than thirty yards away, vapors rising from their faces. The men were dressed in the tatters that remained from their summer clothing, feet wrapped in bloody rags, hair long, beards full, running sores on their faces. They stood hunched forward to relieve the hunger pains that had not left their bellies in days.

  In the strange silence that held for a few moments, von Steuben stared at the ghoulish-looking clump of men, then listened as they began a hollow chant. He turned to look at Du Ponceau for the translation into German. Du Ponceau raised his face and spoke in German, then turned to Hamilton and repeated it in English to be certain.

  “They said, ‘No meat, no bread, no soldier.’”

  Hamilton’s eyes dropped for a moment, then raised back to Du Ponceau. “That is correct.”

  Du Ponceau nodded his affirmation to von Steuben, and for a long time the stout German officer stared at the scarecrow men with shock and disbelief plain in his slitted gray eyes.

  Notes

  General Washington sent Brigadier General Anthony Wayne, General Nath
anael Greene, and five hundred fifty hand-picked men out into the countryside to forage for food and supplies under written orders to take what was needed, at bayonet point if necessary, under authority granted by Congress to General Washngton. Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, p. 35; Wildes, Valley Forge, pp. 170–74; Jackson, Valley Forge: Pinnacle of Courage, p. 89.

  Some generals openly opposed General Washington. Freeman, Washington, p. 381; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 218; Jackson, Valley Forge: Pinnacle of Courage, pp. 196–98.

  The army was in peril of disbanding; it could not withstand a heavy British attack. Wildes, Valley Forge, p. 170; Jackson, Valley Forge: Pinnacle of Courage, p. 88.

  The description of Baron von Steuben’s entourage, including the Italian greyhound dog, his aides, translators, and the belled sleigh and coach, are set forth in Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 439.

  Colonel John Laurens spoke German and acted as an interpreter for General Washington in the exchanges with Baron von Steuben. Jackson, Valley Forge: Pinnacle of Courage, p. 124.

  General Washington had received letters of recommendation for von Steuben from both Silas Deane and Benjamin Franklin, as well as from von Steuben himself. Von Steuben magnanimously offered to serve as a volunteer at no rank or pay until he had learned American ways, which statement heavily impressed General Washington. Portions of said letters are quoted verbatim herein. The history of von Steuben is accurate. He was not a general in the Prussian army but a captain, and he did not represent himself otherwise. Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 438–40; Jackson, Valley Forge: Pinnacle of Courage, 125–26; Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, pp. 38–39.

  Valley Forge

  Late February 1778

  CHAPTER XXVII

  * * *

  The cracking report of the distant musket came strangely loud in the silence of the frozen night, and Caleb Dunson jerked awake, staring wide-eyed into the dark of the hut, lighted only by the remains of the coals banked in the fireplace. He waited until the sleep-fog cleared from his brain and he could make out the dark form of the table on the floor before he raised on one elbow to listen intently, aware something had awakened him but unsure what it was. From miles away came the sound of wolves talking to each other as they ran their prey to ground. Seconds passed in silence, broken only by the sounds of men sleeping. Half a minute later Caleb lay back down and was pulling the folded tent over his head when O’Malley’s voice came quietly in the dim shadows.

  “Dunson, you awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you hear it?”

  “Something woke me. Might have been wolves.”

  “No, it was a musket shot.”

  Caleb reared up on his elbow. “Musket? Close?”

  “No. Maybe three hundred yards. North. Towards the river.”

  Caleb made mental calculations. “Our picket line?”

  “That direction.”

  “Who’s out there on duty now?”

  “Ellison, I think.”

  Men began stirring as Caleb continued, “Maybe someone ought to go take a look.”

  “He’s due back in about ten minutes. If he doesn’t come, I’ll send someone. When do you stand duty tonight?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  An irritated voice came loud from the bunk below Caleb. “Quiet.”

  O’Malley said, “I’ll give Ellison ten more minutes.”

  Seconds stretched to minutes, and Caleb lost track of time as he listened in the silence. The baying of wolves sounded again, farther off, nearly indiscernible. The faint creaking of feet on frozen snow reached the hut, and Caleb held his breath to listen. The sounds came stronger, then they were outside the door, and suddenly the door burst open.

  Caleb and O’Malley jerked upright in their bunks as other men grunted and wakened, and Caleb saw a figure lurch into the darkness of the room to slam into the table, fall to one knee, then rise, hunched forward, one hand flat on the tabletop, the other clamped on his left hip. Behind him a second vague figure entered, and Caleb saw the musket and the bayonet, level, pointing, ready, as Ellison’s voice boomed, “Sergeant, you awake?”

  Caleb dropped from his upper bunk as O’Malley’s stockinged feet hit the cold, dirt floor.

  “Here. What’s happening?”

  “This man was skulking through the trees out there, and I challenged. When he ran, I shot him.”

  “How bad?”

  “Don’t know. He’s still walkin’.”

  “British or ours?”

  “Says he was sent here by the New Jersey Militia. Got lost and was tryin’ to find some place to keep from freezin’ until mornin’. Gave a name, but I forget what it was.”

  Caleb stirred the coals and added kindling to the fire, then fumbled to light the single lantern on the table. Four of the other men were now on their feet, staring at the man who remained beside the table, leaning on his right arm, left hand clutching his left hip. O’Malley raised the lantern to look him full in the face. The prisoner was wiry, bearded, eyes narrowed beneath heavy brows, wearing a heavy woolen coat.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ferguson. Nathan Ferguson.”

  “What were you doing out there in the middle of the night?” O’Malley’s face was a study in doubt and anger.

  “Tryin’ to find someplace to keep from freezin’ to death.”

  O’Malley snorted. “By sneakin’ around in the trees and runnin’ when Ellison challenged?”

  “I didn’t know who he was. And I wasn’t runnin’. I was standin’, facin’ him, waitin’ for him to come.”

  O’Malley snorted, and half the men in the room laughed out loud.

  “Where’d the ball hit you?”

  “Left hip.”

  “Pull off that coat and show me.”

  The man winced as he raised his right hand from the table and his legs took his full weight. Seconds later his coat was on the table, and O’Malley was holding the lantern waist high, looking at the large, black splotch of blood on the man’s trousers and shirt.

  He touched the man’s hip on the back side. “Went in here?”

  The man cringed. “Yes.”

  “I don’t see where it come out. Still in there?”

  “Yes. It burns.”

  O’Malley raised his face. “How’d that ball hit you back there if you was facin’ Ellison?”

  The man stammered. “I . . . was just turnin’ when he fired.”

  Groans of disbelief came from every man in the room as O’Malley continued. “You from New Jersey? Where in New Jersey?”

  “Amboy.”

  “Militia?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you was sent here to join the Continentals, where’s the rest of your company? No militia ever sent just one man.”

  “They deserted. Went back. I come on alone.”

  “Where’s your musket?”

  “Lost it.”

  O’Malley set the lantern on the table. A thin haze of smoke hung in the room from the green wood smoldering in the fireplace. He turned to Ellison.

  “I think you brought in a spy. We was told to be watchin’. I’m goin’ for the captain and a doctor.”

  He turned to Caleb. “While I’m gone, strip him and search him. Everything. Coat, pants, shoes—everything.”

  He spoke to the rest of the men. “Bolt the door and watch careful. See he don’t eat no hidden poison or got a knife hid somewhere. I got a hunch the captain’ll want a long talk with this man, and it won’t do to have him dead.”

  Five minutes later O’Malley walked out the door, musket in hand, clad in the coat and shoes used for picket duty, and Caleb watched his back disappear in the frigid night. Caleb closed the door, dropped the heavy bar into its brackets, and turned to face the man.

  “Strip off all your clothes.”

  The man was wild-eyed, trembling like a caged animal, and instead of removing his clothes, he reached quickly inside his coat wit
h his right hand. When he withdrew it, a knife blade flashed in the yellow lantern light. He lunged at Caleb, slashing wildly at his vitals. Caleb avoided the thrust and in the same motion slammed his left fist into the man’s face. The blow caught him flush on the jaw, knocking him backward into the table and sending him sprawling onto the dirt floor. In an instant four men were on top of him, clawing for the knife hand, choking him, pinning his arms and legs to the dirt floor.

  Ellison turned frightened eyes to Caleb. “You hurt? He get that knife in you?”

  Caleb shook his head. “Strip him. Everything.”

  Ellison mumbled, “Why don’t we just stick that knife in him and tell O’Malley he fell on it?”

  Caleb watched as half a dozen men wrestled every garment off the struggling, cursing man and laid them in a heap on the dirt floor. They tied him, hand and foot, and strapped him with belts to one of the crude benches at the table, then draped a blanket over his shoulders against the cold. They turned back to Caleb, waiting.

  “Search everything.” He reached for the coat.

  Minutes passed while the men silently, systematically, went through everything. Suddenly one straightened, holding up a small, folded square of paper. “In the toe of his shoe!”

  He handed it to Caleb, who held it to the lantern light for a moment, then began to carefully unfold it. Screaming and cursing, the man lunged against the belts that held him on the bench and the cords on his wrists and ankles. Four men pounced on him, and two minutes later he was gagged and tied spread-eagle in a lower bunk, covered with a ragged, filthy blanket.

  Caleb sat at the table with every man gathered around, waiting, and finished unfolding the small paper. He laid it on the table and smoothed it the best he could with his hand, then raised it and read aloud.

  “The wheat has been winnowed. It is ready for grinding. Nathan Ferguson.” The words were printed; the signature written in scrolled English.

  Caleb’s forehead furrowed, and his eyes narrowed in puzzlement. The men around him turned to each other, exclaiming, asking questions no one could answer.

  Caleb read it once more, then laid it on the table, unable to force a conclusion to the questions the brief message raised.