Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  “Shad!”

  He seized the ax and swung hard. Ice chips flew as he widened the hole to six feet, then once again stooped, gaping. The water was roiling with the swimming bodies of the huge fish as they responded to the mysterious compulsion to migrate to the headwaters of their origins, there to spawn and die. He thrust the ax away, seized the bucket, dunked it in the water, waited for two seconds, then jerked it out. Water sloshed as he turned to set it on the ice, then plunged both hands in and seized one of the four-pound, writhing, slippery, gray-and-white fish. He threw it flopping onto the bank, then grasped the second fish and stood, clutching it in both hands as it writhed, fighting.

  The ice was thick close to the bank but thinned fifteen yards out, leaving an open, running channel in the center of the river. Eli stood motionless to study the black water as it flowed east. It was unsettled, riffled, choppy. There was no doubt.

  “They’re running,” he exclaimed.

  He dumped the water from the bucket, threw both fish in, pivoted, and started south at a run. He burst through the door of the hut, and every man in the room jumped, startled. He slammed the bucket down on the table, seized one fish in each hand, and held them high in the dim light while the men stared in wide-eyed disbelief.

  “The shad are running in the river. Thousands. Fat—full of eggs. Get the axes and anything that will catch a fish and get down there.” He threw the two fish back into the bucket and turned to Billy. “I’ll go east, you go west. Tell every officer you see. They only run once a year, and we got to get them while we can. There’s enough to feed this army until spring if we get them in time.”

  From behind came the sounds of men chewing, and Eli turned to look. Two men had cut strips of the white meat from the flopping fish, heavy with rich fish oil, and were stuffing the raw flesh into their mouths. Oil and blood ran from the corners of their mouths into their beards, and they did not care. They only knew that after eight days of famine, they had food in their mouths that would stay in their bellies and give nourishment to their gaunt bodies.

  Eli could not find it in his heart to stop them. “When you’ve had your fill, get on up to the river. Billy, let’s go.”

  By seven o’clock men were running in all directions, shouting, “The river—get to the river—the shad are running!” By eight o’clock mounted riders had reached both ends of the camp, shouting the news as they went. By nine o’clock most of the soldiers of the Continental Army were at the river, smashing holes in the ice with whatever they could find, then plunging into the frigid water up to their knees, grabbing the squirming fish with their hands and throwing them up on the banks as fast as they could. By ten o’clock riders were circulating through the adjacent farms, seizing the fishnets used by the citizens to catch the spring run. By noon the nets were strung across the river above the junction with Valley Creek, and every serviceable horse in camp was in the river seven miles below the nets, side by side, their riders spurring them west, breaking through the ice into water up to their bellies, driving the fish before them. Oxen were hooked to the nets, filled to overflowing with great piles of the writhing fish, to drag them ashore. On the banks teams of men slit them, vent to gills, stripped the eggs into buckets, dumped the entrails on the ground, quickly rinsed the fish in river water, and threw them into barrels or crates or onto blankets—anything that would hold them while the frantic work went on and on. Starving men everywhere were slicing chunks from the silver and gray shad and stuffing them into their mouths, to chew while they worked.

  By two o’clock the horsemen were against the nets, and they reined their mounts out of the river, back to the east to start the second drive. The sun had dropped below the western horizon when the riders reached the nets the second time. They spurred their weary, ice-caked horses out of the water and quickly stripped the saddles and used the saddle blankets to rub them down.

  With hands and feet that were numb from the cold and clothing stiff with ice, the exhausted soldiers left the catch in the barrels and crates and on the riverbank and trotted back to their huts to keep from freezing, knowing the shad would be there, frozen stiff, the next morning. Each man carried fish back to his hut and drew close to blazing fires, to roast the fish, watching the flesh split and the rich oil ooze out, dripping into the flames as his own frozen clothes thawed and steamed. They plucked the fish from the fire into their wooden bowls and picked at the flaky, white meat until it stopped sizzling, then crammed it into their mouths with their hands. They filled their battered, blackened skillets with fish eggs and stirred them until they were steaming, then portioned them out. They could not remember a time when food meant so much as it did that night.

  Eli set his empty bowl on the table and looked at Billy. “How much did we take from the river today?”

  Billy shook his head. “All together?” He shook his head. “No idea. Tons. Maybe fifty tons.”

  “They’ll be running again tomorrow.”

  “I expect the army will be right there to take them.”

  “Don’t need to salt it down in barrels. The cold will hold it for a month, maybe six weeks. Might get enough to see the whole army through to warm weather.”

  “It will probably save us.”

  An insistent knock at the door brought all eyes around. Turlock raised the bar and opened it six inches. A young lieutenant stood outside, shaking in the cold.

  “Come in.”

  The young man entered, and Turlock pointed to the table. “Have some fish.”

  “No time. I’m looking for Sergeant Turlock. Alvin Turlock.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Here are written orders from Captain Stemple.”

  “What about?”

  “Drill.”

  “Drill? What about drill?”

  “There are going to be some changes. That new German officer. You’re to pick one man from this company. It’s in the orders.”

  Turlock took the writing.

  “That’s all.” The lieutenant looked longingly at the table, turned on his heel, and walked back out into the night.

  Turlock opened the paper and held it to the light to read aloud.

  “Each regiment will select two alert men who adapt quickly, to be trained in the science of military drill, discipline, and maneuvers for a period of thirty days, after which they will be returned to their regiment to train their men accordingly. The training of the men selected shall commence at eight o’clock in the morning, two days from date hereof, at the Star Redoubt on Port Kennedy Road.”

  Turlock puzzled at the implications. “Sounds like that new German officer has a plan.” He scratched at his beard. “One man.” He looked at Billy. “Weems, you’re the one.”

  At three o’clock a.m., von Steuben arose from his bed and lighted the lamp in his second-floor bedroom of the plain stone home of Abijah Stephens, where he had been quartered. By disciplined habit he drank one cup of steaming coffee, smoked one pipe of tobacco, and sat down at the desk in the corner of the library. For ten minutes he reviewed and corrected the writing he had completed at ten o’clock the previous night, then picked up his quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and continued writing.

  At ten o’clock he delivered the written documents to Du Ponceau for translation from German to English. At one o’clock, while von Steuben ate his simple midday meal, Du Ponceau delivered the translated documents to Colonel Alexander Hamilton for review by himself and John Laurens. He also picked up the sheets he had left the previous day with Hamilton’s comments in the margins, and returned to his own quarters where he translated Hamilton’s notes to German and delivered them back to von Steuben, who was hunched at his desk, poring over his writing. At seven o’clock, von Steuben delivered the day’s work to Du Ponceau for translation, ate his light supper, then worked until ten o’clock before going to his bed.

  At three o’clock in the dark of early morning he arose again, drank his coffee, smoked his pipe, and began the new day of work on the drill manual, which had
to be completed as fast as he could write it and have it translated.

  At five minutes before eight o’clock on the appointed day, von Steuben dismounted his brown gelding on the west side of the Star Redoubt and handed the reins to his aide. Ninety-two Americans stood in silent curiosity, staring at the two large, brass-studded pistols that protruded from holsters built into the German military saddle. They studied von Steuben, struck by his crisp, new uniform and the gaudy collection of silver and gold medals that graced the left breast of his tunic. They were dominated by the one in the center—a big one that resembled a great, gold sunburst. It meant nothing to the Americans, who did not know it was the Order of Baden, a symbol of knighthood in von Steuben’s native Prussia.

  At eight o’clock von Steuben strode to face the men, Du Ponceau at his side to translate. He stood ramrod straight, chin up, and spoke with the voice and precision of a Prussian officer.

  “I am Baron Frederich von Steuben. I received my military training under Frederick the Great. I do not yet speak your language, but I shall learn. I am acting under written orders of his Excellency, General George Washington. He has authorized the training of this command to the basic drill and manual of arms, which shall become standard in the Continental Army.”

  He stopped, and his narrowed gray eyes scanned the gathering of men, standing loose and easy in a disorganized cluster.

  “I have counted ninety-two of you. There should be one hundred twenty. Today we will not discipline those who arrive after eight o’clock. Tomorrow you will be here at precisely eight o’clock, in rank and file, or punishment shall be meted.”

  The startled Americans looked at each other, then back at von Steuben, and he saw the doubt in their eyes.

  “The reason is, armies succeed or fail because of discipline or the lack of it. This army will succeed. You will succeed. For that reason you will be here on time.”

  The Americans shifted their feet and waited.

  “This morning we shall begin with the basics. You will now form in rank and file, twenty men to the rank, six ranks to the file. A rank is a line of men, shoulder to shoulder, facing me. A file is many ranks, one behind the other. You should do this because order is necessary in an army. Form now!”

  Slowly, uncertainly, the Americans shuffled into six lines—crooked, badly spaced.

  “You will straighten the lines and you will space yourselves by one arm’s length, each man in each rank and each rank in the file. You ought to do this because each man will require the length of one arm to do the maneuvers required of him. Straighten your lines and space yourselves now.”

  The Americans looked at each other, skepticism and reluctance plain in their faces, and began haphazardly straightening their ranks and spacing themselves. It became immediately apparent that one arm’s length varied, tall man to short man.

  “One arm’s length is twenty-four inches.” Von Steuben explained and waited while they adjusted.

  “Now we will discuss marching. You should begin to march by moving your left foot. The marching stride is twenty-eight inches. This you ought to do because tall soldiers and short soldiers can both make a stride of twenty-eight inches, and it is necessary to maintain ranks in straight lines when you are marching and for the ranks to maintain their correct interval. I will show you the proper stride.”

  The Americans gaped, wide-eyed. None of them had ever seen an officer lower himself to the task of drilling men. Officers were far above such matters. Drill had always been the exclusive domain of drill sergeants. The soldiers looked at each other in stunned surprise, then back at von Steuben as he clicked his boot heels together, then marched forward ten paces. His stride was consistent, measured.

  “That is how you should march.”

  It had begun. The demolition of the old Continental Army and the creation of a new one was under way.

  Reluctantly, with doubts and deep reservations, the Americans listened to the instruction and watched the demonstrations and slowly began to form their judgment of this man who patiently, firmly, explained every move, every maneuver, and the reasons for each, in terms that could not be misunderstood. When they marched, he marched with them, at the end of one rank, then the next, watching, bawling out orders, “Straighten the rank, straighten it . . . you there, third man, you are too far back—straighten the rank.”

  At noon he called a halt. “You are dismissed. You will return to this place at half past two o’clock for afternoon drill. We will do this because you must be trained by thirty days, and then you will have thirty days to train your own regiments. We must have this army battle-ready in sixty days. You can do this. You are dismissed.”

  The closely grouped men broke from ranks, jostling as each made his way in his own direction. Billy worked his way toward Port Kennedy Road, anxious to reach his hut just over one mile to the east, where hot shad would be waiting. He slowed to give way to a man coming from his left. He glanced up as the soldier passed, and he saw the tattered summer clothing, the long hair, the light beard, and the sunken eyes above hollow cheeks, and a tingle began in his brain. The man was two paces past him when recognition struck.

  Billy stopped dead in his tracks. “Caleb? Caleb Dunson? Is that you?”

  Caleb turned, looking, and stared at Billy for five seconds before he recognized him, his once-heavy shoulders and bull neck shrunken, his sandy beard full.

  “Billy!”

  Caleb’s doubts of what he would do if he met Billy were gone in an instant. He strode to him and threw his arms around him, and Billy clasped him to his breast like a brother. For a time the two stood in their embrace, saying nothing, lost in the joy of discovering someone from home—someone they had known as far back as memory could take them—someone they loved, who was part of the fabric of their lives.

  Billy grasped Caleb by the shoulders and pushed him back. “Are you all right? I didn’t know . . . how long have you been in the army?”

  Caleb was grinning. “I’m all right. I joined about a year ago. I lost track of you up on the Hudson. When did you come back?”

  “October. Have you heard from your mother? Any letters? Matthew? Brigitte? The children?”

  “No letters. They were fine when I left.”

  “Come to my hut. We’ve got fish.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to finish some things for the regimental orderly book. I’ll be finished by tonight. I can come then. Where’s your company?”

  “Just over a mile east. I’ll draw a map and give it to you this afternoon. Have you been in battle?”

  “Brandywine. Germantown. Paoli.”

  “You were at Paoli?”

  “Yes. Bad. I better go.”

  “See you at two-thirty.”

  It was half past nine o’clock that night when Caleb closed the door of Billy’s hut and began the two-mile walk back to his own company. The quarter-moon and countless stars shed a dim, silvery light on the snow as he walked through the woods and past the huts, head down, his thoughts running. The rattle of the tattoo drum came drifting as he opened the door to his own hut and entered. He quietly climbed to his own bunk and pulled the folded tent over his head to wait for warmth.

  So good to see Billy and talk—so good—so many things—he worries about Matthew—Mother—Brigitte—his own mother—sister—carries so much in his heart—for how long?—when will he be gone—dead like Father—British almost killed him at Concord—shot, bayoneted—like those men at Paoli—dead and gone.

  Caleb twisted in his bunk as the dark thoughts came once again.

  What’s it all for?—all the pain and suffering and death—it doesn’t matter who wins or loses this war—we all die in the end anyway—suffer all our lives and die—like Nancy—she struggled and she suffered and now she will die—die or live in regret the rest of her life.

  He closed his eyes at the remembrance of her, and his heart swelled with grief at knowing he had been the one who had brought her down. He remembered the magic of the feel of her when he
held her close and the touch of her when he had kissed her.

  Nothing good lasts—somehow it all becomes bitter and goes away—what’s the use?—why struggle?—who says we should struggle to do good when nothing good lasts?—the Almighty?—where’s He while we’re struggling?—in His heaven?—safe and warm while we’re down here freezing and starving and killing each other?—hopeless—it’s all hopeless—nothing good lasts—finally it is all gone.

  He drifted into a twisting, fitful, tormented sleep, seeing a mix of jumbled images: his father, mother, home, Billy and Matthew, dead men on a battlefield, and the beautiful face and the staring, accusing, green eyes of Nancy Fremont.

  Notes

  In March 1778 hundreds of thousands of shad fish migrated up the Schuylkill River, on the northern boundary of the Continental Army camp. The soldiers used cavalry horses and tree branches to force the spawning fish upriver into nets they had obtained from local residents. The soldiers salted tons of the fish for food supply, as described herein. Wildes, Valley Forge, pp. 174–75.

  General von Steuben organized a team of 120 picked soldiers to train in one month, after which they went back to their own units to train them. Von Steuben’s habit of arising at three o’clock a.m., drinking one cup of coffee, smoking one pipe of tobacco, and then entering his day’s work is factual. He worked continually on creating his new manual of arms and drill, with input from John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton. He did in fact carry two large pistols in holsters on his saddle. Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, pp. 39–40; Wildes, Valley Forge, p. 205.

  Valley Forge

  April–May 1778

  CHAPTER XXX

  * * *

  The weather had warmed. The steady drip of snowmelt from the roofs of the huts and from the trees was a quiet drumming from one end of camp to the other. The snow had softened, then turned to slush. Muddy splotches appeared in the roadways and the paths that countless feet had made from one place to another. In the hope of spring, soldiers moved about with a slight lift in their step. A snatch of song was heard here and there.