by Jeff Shaara
25. WASHINGTON
OCTOBER 7, 1777
He assembled the army near Shippack Creek, a march of twenty miles from the site of their chaotic fight at Germantown. Their casualties nearly equaled what they had lost at Brandywine, more than a thousand men killed, wounded, and captured, and in the space of three weeks, the two fights had cost Washington more than twenty percent of his army.
The British encampment at Germantown had been a wonderfully ripe target, the town itself approachable by several good roads. From all he had learned about the British position, Washington knew that if they made their march at night, two strong forces could converge on the enemy lines in a pinching assault that not even Howe’s regulars could withstand.
He had advanced along the main road with Sullivan, while Greene led his division up to the north, would come into the town on the British flank. It was good strategy, driven by the fire of the men who saw the chance to avenge their defeat at Brandywine. The initial attack had driven the British back in total confusion, but then the confusion had swept over both armies, the entire field shrouded in dense fog. But the key to the strategy was coordination between the two prongs of the attack, the timing that both divisions would begin their assault at the same time. Greene’s route had been longer than expected, his division led by a guide whose self-proclaimed skill had proven dreadfully overstated. Though Sullivan’s attack had panicked the British into a stampeding retreat, when Greene’s men finally arrived, they stumbled right into Sullivan’s flank. Blinded by the fog, and their own nervousness, both wings of Washington’s assault began to fire into their own positions. When the British managed to re-form and make a stand, the confusion in Washington’s lines became panic. Since Washington still believed they had achieved a complete victory, he was astounded to witness the sudden collapse of his entire attack, waves of his men returning out of the fog, pursued by little more than the sound of their own footsteps. Despite the utter vulnerability of Washington’s panicked troops, Howe did not drive forward a pursuit. Once clear of the town, the retreat had slowed, and as had happened at Brandywine, Washington’s army managed to salvage itself.
As the army gathered, Washington was surprised that the men who shouldered the muskets seemed to take it in stride, were even boastful of having carried an attack straight to the heart of the British headquarters. There was little evidence of shame in the camps, more the sense that it could have worked, that this time, success was very close, a fight that was turned more by bad fortune than any fault of their own.
But if the foot soldiers could shrug off the stain, Washington could not, and immediately he began to hear a new round of criticism. The defeat at Germantown gave new energy to those who were unraveling the frayed edges around his command, men whose frustrations were giving volume to their angry voices. Some of the dissenters, like Joseph Reed, were long gone. But there were others, men who Washington had believed were supportive of his efforts, surprised when they began to carry their disaffection to the congress. Some were valuable officers who had grown miserable under Washington’s command, men like Benjamin Rush, the physician who had served as surgeon general, or Thomas Mifflin, the field commander who had become quartermaster general. There were open discussions now, suggestions of incompetence and indecision, complaints that Washington was too reliant and too respectful of unproven officers like Greene and the young Lafayette. Even Washington’s staunch supporters had to wonder if the commanding general was so burdened by the hardships of pursuing the war that he had lost his ability to make sound decisions.
When the congress again fled Philadelphia, they carried fresh dispatches from up north, the first reports of the struggle Horatio Gates was waging against Burgoyne. It was one report in particular that gave Washington’s critics fresh ammunition. Word came of a victory against the British, a place called Freeman’s Farm, that had halted Burgoyne’s campaign and possibly placed Burgoyne’s army in some jeopardy. There could be no quick confirmation, but those who were speaking out against Washington took advantage, some already making a champion of Gates, the man some felt was the most likely to achieve some success in this war. With Charles Lee still in the hands of the British, many had begun to anoint Gates as the new savior, the one man certainly capable of finding the victory that had so eluded the helpless Washington.
As he had done at Chester, Washington waited for the darkness and walked among the campfires. His gloom was absolute, a dark chasm of private despair that he would not inflict upon the men at his headquarters. After the fight at Germantown, the army had extended their march to nearly forty-five miles in two days, a stunning display of energy from men who were still without shoes and much of anything to eat. For two days they had collapsed around Shippack Creek in heaps of exhaustion, recovering not just from that one extraordinary march, but from the weeks of marching and fighting, the constant pursuit and escape from Howe’s army.
He moved along a thin line of trees, stepped into the open where the campfires flickered in a ragged pattern across the fields. He heard the crack of a twig behind him, did not turn, knew it was the guards, keeping their discreet distance. He knew that Tilghman would not let him just wander off, would send at least a few of the handpicked Virginians to follow him. Thank you, Mr. Tilghman. With you in my camp, I have no need of a Guardian Angel. He could not blame the young aide, knew that where the lookouts were posted, a nervous sentry might see this large man slipping quietly through darkness and make a tragic mistake. No, Mr. Tilghman, I will not endanger myself.
He moved closer to the nearest fire, the light catching a row of dark bundles, realized it was men sleeping in the open. He moved away, would not disturb them, saw movement around another fire, a man standing up, another coming out of a small tent. He stayed back, heard their voices now, more men gathering close, and he could see something on the ground between them, playing cards, a game of some sort. He did not approve of gambling in the camps, had seen too many fights, had issued too many orders for punishment for such a destructive activity. But exercises in discipline seemed meaningless now. He could not deprive these men of anything they needed, not after his latest mistake, another battle whose failure cut a deep swath through any optimism he could muster. He thought of Greene, Sullivan, Knox, the men he must rely on, must hold to the same standards that the congress was placing on him. There seemed to be a new standard now as well, so much encouragement coming from Gates and his stand against Burgoyne. Washington knew Gates well, a former British officer who had settled in Virginia. He had a reputation as a disagreeable, combative man, which was only enhanced by his appearance. He was very short, somewhat round, peered at the world through amazingly thick spectacles, his face locked in a perpetual frown. He had come to the Continental Army at Washington’s own request, was the first adjutant the congress had named, had been the first to serve Washington as Tilghman did now.
Though Washington had been far less critical then many around the headquarters, he had never thought Gates particularly capable of command. But he could not openly question the accuracy of the reports from Gates, knew that his critics would jump on his doubts as a show of jealousy, pettiness toward the one commander in this army who might actually be succeeding.
He was still staring out toward the fires, tried to sweep the image of Gates from his mind. You cannot dwell on that which you cannot change. This is what is important, this ground, this camp, so many good men. Is there faith still, that I can lead them into another fight? There is a burden enough in being outfought by your enemies. But this command is under a siege of a different sort, from congress, from the successes of Mr. Gates. If he prevails, what shame and dishonor will these men suffer if they are outdone in every instance? This is not Europe, these are not men compelled to serve, we are not such an army that we do not feel these things. Will they continue to obey this command if I do not give them something in return?
OCTOBER 18, 1777
The report came first to Putnam’s command in the Hudson River
Highlands, was sent by rider across New Jersey, ferried across the Delaware by the same crossing where nearly a year ago, Washington had had his finest hour. But no one spoke of Trenton anymore, few seemed to recall the triumph of Princeton. Old memories are replaced by fresh triumphs, and the army had a new cause for celebration, a new roster of heroes, a cheerful outburst for that other army, far to the north, and the man who led them. The place was in every conversation, its name repeated by every soldier, in letters home, reports to congress and the states, a place high up the Hudson River called Saratoga. Putnam’s report said that Gates had not only defeated Burgoyne’s army, but had captured the entire force and would negotiate its surrender.
Washington had ordered Knox to fire a thirteen-gun salute, and he issued his own congratulations to Gates’ efforts, posted the words throughout the camp, Let every face brighten, and every heart expand . . .
The details in the report were plain enough, but Washington had yet to hear any word from Gates himself, and despite the jubilation that rolled through his camp, Washington could not simply accept as fact the report that came by way of Israel Putnam, a man who was himself relying on information that had merely been passed along by courier. He held tight to his skepticism, knew that there was already the speculation that with Burgoyne eliminated, Gates would march south and join his army to Washington’s. The issue of who would assume overall command was already a hot topic in congress, and Washington knew that the rumors were drifting around his own headquarters as well, speculation that despite issues of rank, Gates would no longer serve as anyone’s subordinate.
Whether or not Gates saw himself as the new savior of the cause, Washington was still his commanding officer, and still felt entitled to the man’s report. After several days of complete silence, Washington lost all patience for waiting. At the end of October, he sent Alexander Hamilton on the long ride north, to visit Gates himself, the young man carrying Washington’s order for Gates to send a large percentage of his strength southward. Whether or not Gates would come himself, or even obey the order were concerns Washington kept to himself.
NOVEMBER 4, 1777
The British had withdrawn their army entirely into Philadelphia, had fortified the city with a series of strong earthworks, Howe not risking any exposure to his army that might result in another surprise like Germantown. But the British had essentially cut themselves off from any reliable supply line, the ships at Head of Elk too far away to be of practical use. The danger to the British was their very hold on Philadelphia, that without the ships, the army simply could not be fed. The Delaware River was the most obvious artery for Howe, but a vast fleet of British supply ships was forced to wait far down the river. The Americans had constructed two significant forts on the New Jersey shore, Mercer and Mifflin, manned by enough artillery to keep any British shipping at bay. Both Howe and Washington recognized the critical importance of controlling the river, and for nearly a month, the British launched repeated assaults by land and sea, brutal and bloody attacks led by some of Howe’s finest officers. On November 15, the last American position was overrun, and the British finally controlled the Delaware. Though another devastating defeat for the Americans, both sides understood that the cost had been enormous, not just for the troops, but for their commanders. One name emerged from the reports, familiar even to Washington. Howe had lost one of his most able commanders, and the Hessians one of their finest officers. Among the dead was Colonel Karl von Donop.
NOVEMBER 28, 1777
Washington knew that British troop strength had been weakened in the city, that the assault on the forts down the river had been led by Cornwallis himself. But Washington was weakened as well; Greene, accompanied by Lafayette, had led nearly three thousand men who were still on the New Jersey side of the river, the detachment Washington had hoped would rescue the beleaguered outposts. They had been too late to turn the fight, the forts already surrendered when Greene drew close. Now it would take several days for Greene to return, and Washington could only wonder if there was any way he could still drive the British out of Philadelphia.
He eased the horse along a wide crest, the hill overlooking the entire city. He was surprised they had seen no sign of a British outpost, no lookouts, no one patrolling the farms beyond the city itself. He stopped, raised his field glasses, thought, No, Howe is content to stay put. He is already thinking of his very pleasant winter quarters. He moved the glasses toward the river, could see a row of masts, the activity along the waterfront. The flags were evident as well, the perfect symbol for the British achievement, the flag of their king flying over the American capital. He had expected a great deal more outcry from the congress, knew that there would be ample amounts of anguish from a government that has lost its seat. But the congress was reestablished at York now, and though there was plenty of controversy, he had received very little of the shrill advice he expected, that Philadelphia should be retaken at all costs. No, this is not Europe after all, and even if General Howe does not understand that, we do. Philadelphia was a name on a map, and though most considered it the venue for the government, it had no real meaning as the capital city, nothing so historical that its loss was any kind of devastating blow to the army. In some ways, he thought, It serves us better. It is one quite visible place, just as New York. The enemy is right there, right where we can see them.
The wind was blowing, and he put the glasses away, pulled his coat tighter around him. Winter indeed. We may predict one thing about General Howe. There will be no campaign now, no great long march, no threat.
He had already scouted the most practical location for his own army to camp for the winter. They would avoid the towns, could not so abuse the citizens who were so completely abused already, some of the outlying communities extremely crowded with those who had escaped the city itself. He had considered moving farther west, the safer hamlets and hill country, but the British would certainly take advantage. With his army far away, Washington knew that Howe could make uncontested forays to the farm country near the city. It was a vastly fertile land, and what the British did not take they might very well destroy. It was essential that throughout the winter Washington keep his troops close enough to Philadelphia to watch over Howe’s movements, to guard the many avenues the British could use to venture into the surrounding countryside. Since there was no suitable town, Washington had scouted the land for the most suitable location to build one, would have the men construct their own camp, making good use of the lumber from the dense woodlands in the area. If the location was secure, guarded by water, or sharp hills, Howe was unlikely to attempt any kind of surprise attack.
He turned the horse, the staff moving with him, felt the sharp chill again. I do not relish another winter, certainly not for these men, who have already endured so much. But the construction will provide activity, keep them engaged in healthy work, and if we are fortunate, a kind Providence will bless us with a gentle season. He moved the horse down along a narrow creek, through a stand of trees, already bare of leaves. The wind whistled above him, and he glanced out to the west, to the darkening sky. He was still unsure if the ground he had chosen was the best place, but it was only eighteen miles from the British lines, was wrapped by a deep bend in the Schuylkill River, a high prominence that would hold away any assault Howe might make.
Despite Howe’s success in opening the Delaware River, and what Washington still believed were his own failures to win his confrontations with Howe’s troops, the mood of the army was surprisingly buoyant. Some would wonder at our very survival, he thought, would marvel that this war has lasted yet another year. It may be our greatest opportunity, our most effective weapon, to prolong the fight. Did any one of us truly believe this would be a brief affair? Perhaps it is unfitting for a nation to be born simply by a wave of a hand, or even the acclamation of its people. If we are worthy of all we profess to fight for, then perhaps the Almighty is requiring us to demonstrate that. If that is my part in this, then I will do the best I can. If congress
believes someone else should take command, I will accept that as well. In the end, it is the goal that will matter, not who carries the torch.
The horse found the road, and he waited for the men behind him to file into place. He paused a moment, looked at the faces, the ragged coats, said, “Gentlemen, we will march the men tomorrow. I wish us to occupy that good ground with haste. I do not believe General Howe will interfere, but we can leave nothing to fate. When we reach the camps, we will issue instructions on the order of march. We will prepare a sufficient number of maps. There will be no confusion. If we are blessed by a Divine hand, then we will be afforded a gentle winter, and that ground at Valley Forge will provide us a safe location.”
He turned, spurred the horse, the wind still cutting into him. He blinked through the cold air, fought to see, realized it was starting to snow.
26. FRANKLIN
PARIS, NOVEMBER 1777
The quiet gardens of Passy had not given him the escape he had sought. If he had any thoughts that removing himself from the bustle of Paris meant a much more relaxed focus on his work, he knew now that his celebrity had come with an annoying price. For weeks on end, no matter his other appointments, no matter the fullness of his calendar, he found himself fending off the constant stream of visitors to his home, so many of whom were seeking his approval, a letter of introduction or recommendation to the congress, some avenue for opportunity in America.
They came with appointments or without, men from all level of society, clerks and bankers, carpenters and dandies, offering services that most had no ability to provide. Franklin had made a game of predicting their particular story, would watch through the window as they emerged from elegant carriages, or climbed down from swaybacked horses. The sport was the only consolation to the assault on his intelligence, as though he was blind to their ambitions and their motivations for leaving France. No matter their performance, he created his own category of applicant. Some were fleeing some personal difficulty, usually an escape from a creditor. Others had personal problems of a different sort, usually involving one or more women, a mix of revenge or jealousy. Then there were the soldiers, and Franklin categorized them as either genuine or counterfeit. In either case, they poured forth their requests, cloaked in a well-rehearsed passion for the American cause. Franklin had come to dread the appearance of a man in uniform. The more finery on the man’s coat, the more outrageous his expectations. More than one man insisted on supplanting Washington himself, as though no American could possibly measure himself in the company of a Frenchman with obscure medals on his chest. Franklin was aware that Silas Deane had succumbed to these presentations, had annoyed congress with letters of introduction for some men who Franklin was convinced would never see any form of battlefield.
