Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  “I’ll be back not long after sunup. Tell Turlock.”

  “Where you going?”

  “I heard wolves less than a half mile from camp on my way back from picket duty. I promised Mary a wolf-skin coat.”

  Billy shrugged. “I’ll tell him.” He watched Eli pick up the rifle and a coil of rawhide cord, and he felt the cold rush of air as Eli walked out the door and closed it.

  The sap in the green kindling made a small hissing sound as it boiled out and dripped into the flames, and Billy added one more stick before he picked up his musket and walked out into the night. A sliver of moon lay low on the eastern horizon, and Billy felt his breath freezing in his beard as he walked steadily to his picket post. He leaned his musket against a tree and began the nightly ritual of all who stood picket duty in the fierce cold. He wrapped his arms around himself and moved his feet. He pounded his open hands against his sides and on his thick legs. He rubbed his face until feeling returned, then began the ritual again.

  He judged that an hour had passed when he heard the unmistakable crack of a rifle far to the south, away from the river. Eli. I wonder if he hit in the dark. He thought for a moment. If he shot, he hit.

  At the end of his second hour he was shaking from the cold as he picked up his musket and walked back to the hut. He was at the door when the report of a second rifle shot reached him from the southwest, and he instinctively turned to look. Did he get two?

  He entered the hut and touched one of the other men on the shoulder. “Your duty.”

  Dawn came clear and colorless to cast the camp in stark sunlight. Dark smoke from green wood rose up the chimneys of nine hundred huts, into the still air of a cloudless sky. Silent men, gaunt scarecrows dressed in rags, with feet wrapped in bloody, shredded strips of anything they could find, walked out to cut more wood—always more wood—to keep from freezing to death in their huts. The light of hope was gone from their eyes. Their only thought was finding a way to survive one more day. One more day.

  Billy’s clothes hung slack on his frame as he pulled on his coat and buttoned the front. The coat hung from his shoulders like a tent, and he wrapped a piece of cord around his middle and tied it tight to his body. With Turlock and two others from his hut, he walked out into the morning and loaded the four axes leaned against the front wall onto a crude sled. Two men looped the rope over their shoulders, and they started south, dragging the sled toward the trees. They had gone twenty yards when Turlock pointed.

  “Eli’s coming.”

  They all looked at Eli, walking out of the woods toward them, hunched forward, dragging two dead wolves in the snow behind. At his approach the wood crew stopped.

  Billy pointed to the two wolves—one white, one gray. “Enough for the coat?”

  Eli nodded. “Got to skin them.” He waited a moment before he continued. “Wolf meat’s a little tough and stringy and bitter, but a man can stay alive on it.”

  All four men on the wood crew raised a hand to wipe at their beards while they stared at the dead carcasses with but one thought.

  Turlock said, “Let’s get ’em loaded.” Without a word they dragged the two dead wolves onto the sled and turned it around. Minutes later they stopped at the door of the hut and Turlock spoke.

  “You men fill the pots with snow and get them heated inside. Eli, you need help skinnin’ ’em?”

  Eli shook his head. “They’re frozen. I’ll clean out the cavity out here, but I’ll have to bring them inside to skin them.”

  Fifteen minutes later the men dumped diced heart and liver into three steaming pots. For the next forty minutes they waited while Eli peeled the skin back, careful not to score the pelts, and cut off the hams, then the loins, and finally the shoulders from the first carcass. The other men in the hut stripped the meat off the bones, diced it, and dropped it splashing into the pots. They wrinkled their noses at the piercing stench of boiling wolf meat, and they stirred it with sticks while Eli skinned the second carcass. He spread the gray pelt on the floor behind the door, laid the meat on it, and covered it with the white pelt. He walked outside to wash his hands in snow while Turlock got his wooden bowl and dipped some of the steaming broth into it. He raised it, held his breath, and sipped.

  He shuddered and for a moment could not speak. “It’s greasy and bitter, and it needs salt, but there’s strength in it. Get your bowls.”

  They dipped the broth and chunks of the diced meat and sipped at it. Five of them gagged and turned their heads, but they held it down and continued dipping it up with their wooden spoons. The warmth spread from their bellies outward, and they slowed for a time, then dipped some more.

  Finally Turlock set his empty bowl on the table. “Better slow down. Your bellies been empty too long. They won’t take too much at first.”

  The men finished what was in their bowls and sat on the benches or on their bunks while their stomachs struggled to hold the wolf stew.

  “We’ll wait twenty minutes, then we got to go get the firewood. We’ll keep the pots warm for dinner and supper.”

  They sat in silence, savoring the feel of meat in their bellies, struggling to choke down the urge to vomit up the bitter, greasy gruel. Turlock gave them twenty-five minutes before he stood.

  “All right, you lovelies, the wood won’t cut itself. Let’s get at it.”

  The wood crew filed out the door as the sound of trotting horses brought their heads around, peering east. They watched a team of matched Percheron geldings, necks arched against the pull of the bit, trotting west, pulling a large, black sleigh. As it passed, the men saw a stout officer sitting stiffly straight, dressed in a buff and blue uniform, tricorn squarely on his head. There was an officer facing him in the opposing seat.

  Turlock shook his head. “That German again. Been out riding around camp like that for three, four days. Looks like he’s headed for headquarters. I wonder what he has to say to Gen’l Washington.”

  They watched the sleigh go out of sight before they once again loaded the axes on the sled and trudged south toward the trees.

  Three miles west, seated in his small office, Washington concluded reading a document, nodded his approval, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and affixed his signature. He leaned back to let it dry and spoke to Hamilton, seated opposite him.

  “There’s the order for the trial. I understand one of the accused is a woman. Quite young, in fact.”

  “Eighteen. Beautiful girl.”

  Washington shook his head. “Will you arrange to have the men who caught her in this office by two o’clock today? They’ve done a remarkable thing. I want to commend them personally.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. “Are we expecting Baron von Steuben this morning?”

  “In five minutes, sir.”

  “When he arrives, show him in. I understand he has requested audience for most of the morning.”

  Hamilton nodded. “Yes, he has. I think the general will be . . . uh . . . surprised at Baron von Steuben’s views on our camp.”

  Washington’s eyebrows raised. “Oh?” He reflected for a moment. “Is Colonel Laurens going to be here?”

  “He is, sir.”

  The sound and ground vibrations of heavy horses approaching came, and instinctively both men looked out through the light lace of the window curtains.

  Hamilton stood. “That should be him now, sir.”

  “Bring him in.”

  Hamilton left, and Washington leaned back in his plain, wooden chair, pondering while he waited. The clicking of boot heels in cadence came down the hallway, and Washington straightened in his chair. He answered the rap at the door, John Laurens opened it, entered, and stepped aside. Baron von Steuben strode in, his face a mask of military discipline, followed by General Du Ponceau. Von Steuben stopped a measured six feet from Washington’s desk, and his arm snapped up in a salute. He spoke, and Du Ponceau translated.

  “Baron von Steuben reporting as ordered, sir
.”

  Washington stood, returned the salute, and gestured to them all to take their places, Laurens at the side of the desk, the two Germans facing him. All sat down on plain, straight-backed chairs. The only break in the austere walls was the stone fireplace built in one wall, where a fire burned. Above the fireplace was a simple mantel, with a clock that ticked steadily.

  Washington leaned forward on his forearms, hands clasped. All too well he knew the destitute condition of the American army, but he refused to make excuses. “I trust your accommodations are adequate?”

  Von Steuben nodded. “Yes. Fine.”

  “Have you had sufficient time to reach some conclusions concerning this camp?”

  “I have made a writing.” Du Ponceau handed von Steuben a sheaf of papers nearly half an inch thick. Washington masked his surprise.

  “I would be happy to hear your recommendations.”

  Von Steuben bobbed his head once. “The general will forgive me if I speak too plainly, but it is my experience that plainness is sometimes required.” Von Steuben stopped, and his eyes bored into Washington’s.

  Washington said, “I prefer plainness. Proceed.”

  Von Steuben worked with the papers for a moment, took a deep breath, and ripped into it, voice steady, words clipped with strict Prussian discipline.

  “I will speak first of the regiments. I have not found one that is organized. The officers are elected by the vote of the men. This means the officers must maintain the good will of the men they lead or be replaced whenever the men wish. It strips the officers of any possibility of disciplining their soldiers. The practice is utterly ridiculous. It must stop at once. Officers must be selected on merit.”

  His eyes dropped to his paperwork. “I believe no regiment has more than one-third of its men fit for duty at this time. One company has but one man remaining—a corporal. Another company cannot mount a corporals’ guard today. Not one regiment can muster a full company. I discovered a Massachusetts regiment under the command of a lieutenant! To call such a thing an army is unthinkable.”

  He cleared his throat, and his voice heightened almost imperceptibly. “I will now talk of the soldiers. Never have I seen men in this condition. They are dressed in rags. I have seen some soldiers absolutely naked. They are barefoot. They leave blood in the snow where they walk. As of this morning they have had no rations—not one thing—for eight days. Their bodies are racked with open sores. They suffer from fever, typhoid, smallpox. Every available building within ten miles is filled with the sick and dying. We call them hospitals, but in truth they are little more than breeding places for death. Every night men die from freezing. Every day wagons pass through camp to collect the dead bodies, and they are buried without ceremony, twenty or more to a grave, with no memorial of who they were or where they were from. I counted twenty-one dead bodies cast into a wagon like trash yesterday. There were great rats in the wagon, gnawing on the corpses. I watched as they were thrown in a shallow trench, like so many dead cattle. The men throwing them in fought over what little clothing they could strip from the corpses, like grave robbers. Ghouls! The practice is appalling!”

  Washington’s face was a mask of disciplined shock at the brutality of von Steuben’s assault. Laurens sat like a stone statue. Von Steuben continued.

  “The camp is filthy beyond anything I have ever seen. Three hundred twenty-nine dead horse carcasses scattered everywhere, putrid, decaying. The vaults used by the men to relieve their bowels are full and overflowing and unusable, so the men now evacuate their bowels and relieve themselves wherever they wish, like animals. Human excrement is everywhere! The stink is worse than any cattle or horse corral I have ever seen. The insides of the huts are little better. I do not believe a single soldier has cleaned his body in two months. They urinate against the walls. Their bedding is filthy. The floors of the huts are dirt. The roofs leak. There is no question the deplorable conditions in this camp have filled the hospitals with sick and dying men.”

  Von Steuben stopped to place a finger on his papers. In that moment the room was locked in a silence so tense that Hamilton dared not move.

  The German went on. “Officers are dressed in uniforms made from bed quilts or from cast-off blankets. Every company has a different color, a different design for uniforms. No two companies appear to be from the same army. It is impossible to achieve unity in an army when no two companies appear the same.”

  Du Ponceau was watching von Steuben intently, not missing a word, translating everything exactly as it was spoken. Laurens had not moved nor spoken as he followed both von Steuben’s Germanic presentation and Du Ponceau’s translation.

  “Every company drills its men according to its own notions—often by the whim of the officers in charge. There are at least fifty different systems of drill in this camp, no two alike. It is a travesty to call such an assembly of regiments an army! They are not an army! They are fifty small, separate groups of badly prepared officers and undisciplined soldiers, who are worse than no army at all.”

  Hamilton glanced at Washington, whose mouth was a slit above a chin set like granite.

  “The equipment is very close to unusable. There is no uniformity. Most companies have muskets, fowling pieces, carbines, and rifles, all mixed together. Close to half the weapons are rusted so badly they will not fire a single shot. Parts must be exchanged or replaced—hammers, frizzens, triggers—and you cannot replace the hammer of a musket with that taken from a rifle, nor the frizzen on a rifle with one taken from a fowling piece. As for the bayonets, the men have never been trained to use them. Many have been thrown away. Most are used to skewer bits of food to cook over a fire, when they can find the food. Cartridge pouches are nearly nonexistent. Men are still carrying powder in cattle horns. The cannon are rusting. Should this camp be required to fight today, more than half the weapons would not fire. I am unable to understand how the muskets and cannon have been allowed to come into such a condition.”

  Von Steuben stopped again, and silence held while he reviewed his notes, then went on:

  “It is my opinion this army is badly organized. The office of inspector general is very close to nonfunctional. I am told there are no financial records available, nor are there any records of the supplies that have been purchased, where they have gone, or how much remains available. Quartermasters are paid according to the amount of goods they purchase, and with no records to control the flow of goods, the result is that theft abounds at every turn. Goods bought for this army are being sold at inflated prices in Philadelphia and other places, while the quartermasters and their conspirators grow rich. The organization of this army was patterned after that of the British army. To state it in the simplest possible terms, this army is a very poor copy of a very poor original.”

  He paused to allow his words to settle in, then forged on. “The system of soldiers enlisting for three months or six months or nine months, and then leaving, will cripple this army until it is corrected. No sooner do we train a soldier than he is gone, and we must begin with a new one. We will never have a fully trained, effective army until we have the soldiers long enough to train them and then get the benefit of their training.”

  Von Steuben drew and released a great sigh, peered at his notes, and raised his eyes to Washington’s. For a few moments there was a silent exchange between the two men, and then von Steuben continued.

  “Many soldiers waste much time with cards and gambling. All forms of gambling must cease. The inevitable result of gambling is arguments and fights, sometimes killing. It makes soldiers lazy, undisciplined. It must stop at once.”

  Von Steuben rearranged his sheaf of papers to bring a new section to the top, cast his eyes at the floor while he determined he had finished the first half of his presentation, and raised his eyes back to Washington.

  “I recognize I have said many critical things. May I repeat, there is a time for plain speaking. It is my opinion this is one of them. May I now continue with some thoughts and proposal
s that may be of a more positive nature?”

  Hamilton’s eyes widened. In the name of heaven, I hope so! This man has demolished every part of this army. Is there something he missed?

  Washington nodded, and von Steuben glanced down at the new section of his paperwork.

  “I begin with the soldiers. I state bluntly that no European army I have ever seen or read about would survive the conditions I find here. I am overpowered with admiration when I see your men as they are, freezing, starving, but standing to their duties. Refusing to mutiny. Refusing to desert. There is something in their spirit that is indomitable. Grand. If I . . . we . . . can find a way to harness that spirit, I thrill at the possibilities of the army we can produce. Think of it!”

  A light broke in Washington’s eyes. Von Steuben’s voice rose, and there was a beginning of excitement about him as he continued.

  “I believe I have discovered something that is very important to understanding how to reach your men.” He stopped, searching for the right words. “In Europe you tell the soldier, ‘Do this,’ and he doeth it because that is what he was ordered to do.” A shine came into his eyes. “But in this army, you tell the soldier, ‘This is the reason you ought to do this, and he doeth it.’”

  Washington started. Laurens gaped. Hamilton drew breath. Instantly each of them grasped that this rigid, stout Prussian officer had plumbed the depth of the American soldier and reached the foundations on which the army—the entire nation—rested. None of the three Americans in the room had ever heard it pronounced so clearly, so concisely. Order an American, and you have no guarantee. Give an American the reasons, and if the reasons are good enough, you will have a convert. Choice. Rob an American of choice, and he will fight.

  Von Steuben went on. “I am writing a drill manual for the Continental Army. I have named it Regulations for the Order and Discipline of the Troops of the United States. It addresses all matters concerning the soldier and will train the entire army as one.” He paused and looked at Laurens, then Hamilton, then back at Washington. “I am aware you have selected two extraordinary men to be your personal aides. I would be grateful if you would allow me to seek their advice on the manual before it is finished. I am certain their contribution will be invaluable.”