by Jeff Shaara
“This amuses you, gentlemen. Enjoy your moment of levity. But you will perform this drill a hundred times . . . a thousand times. When you leave this field, you will perform it in your dreams, you will march these steps in your mind while you eat, while you perform your toilet. When I release you from this field, you will return to your regiments, and you will perform this for your men, you will be the teacher. If you do not think of this as important, then you will not survive against your enemy. I assure you, General Howe’s soldiers have performed this exact drill, they can perform it in the darkest night, in a driving rain, and they can perform it perfectly as they die from your musket fire.” He paused, looked out over the faces, saw all eyes watching him. “Without drill, an army is nothing more than a mob. Without drill, a soldier is a musket with one ball. When that ball is discharged, there is nothing remaining. That is when you die by the bayonet. Have any of you ever participated in fisticuffs?”
There were low laughs, and several hands were raised.
“Yes, well, this very method of drill will assure your victory in a one-man war as well. Two men, shouting angrily at each other, then the blows come, a rapid uncontrolled flailing of arms and fists. Is that familiar?”
There were nods, small comments, mostly agreement.
“I would offer you an advantage. If you ever find yourself in the unfortunate circumstance of such combat, remember this drill. Why? When your opponent begins his wild assault, you take one step back, you wait for the moment, you might even endure his blows, the ridiculous meaningless pummeling, but you are skilled, you are disciplined, you will wait. You focus on your target, and you make one solid punch, you launch your disciplined assault right at his vulnerable point. With one sharp precise blow, you will defeat him. It is no different than facing a thousand men. It is the difference between a mob and an army. Discipline, patience, the carefully aimed maneuver, the perfectly placed blow. I assure you. General Howe knows this. King Frederick the Great knows this. Now . . . you know it. It is my duty to prevent you from forgetting it.”
He gave the hundred men the title of inspectors, and within days, the continuous drill had shaped them into the teachers he required them to be. It was not always smooth, and he was not always as controlled with his temper as he hoped to be, but even his fury was endearing. More, the inspectors were impressed by von Steuben’s willingness to embarrass himself, the prestigious officer who would soil his boots, shoulder a musket, kneel and crawl and march in their lines. As the first inspectors gained their skill, others began to line up, volunteering to become his next company of students, and thus, teachers themselves.
Though his focus remained tightly on the men close at hand, he could not avoid being distracted by the one blue-coated horseman who would appear occasionally among his audience. Washington did not come often, but come he did, and von Steuben would snap his men into line, the volume of his words just a bit louder, a discreet glance toward the big man on the white horse who would observe only awhile, then move away to other duties. After so many days von Steuben had come to understand that Washington was a man of few compliments, few outbursts of emotion. But if the words weren’t spoken, von Steuben had seen it in the man’s eyes, Washington’s quiet approval. The men in the drill knew, and now, their commander did as well. The army was indeed changing its shape.
He had made the acquaintance of all of Washington’s senior commanders, had felt the bonds between those for whom Washington seemed to have a special respect. Nathanael Greene came to headquarters many times, and those who dared to speak behind his back did so well out of the presence of Washington himself. Greene seemed to possess a Prussian’s impatience, and von Steuben was surprised to learn that the man had no background as a soldier. There were jealousies toward the man, some minor complaining that Washington relied on the Rhode Islander to an extreme. The complaints were few though, and even the men who groused quietly that Greene had not actually accomplished much on the battlefield seemed to believe that if the crisis came, he would be the man to emerge.
Von Steuben was making regular visits to headquarters, a guest for dinner nearly three times per week. The makeshift dining room was always crowded, a mingling of senior officers, staff, cooks and maids, and the wonderful company of the women. He had taken immediately to Martha, the quiet smiling woman, always polite, always gracious, a kind word at every turn. But her soft graciousness could not hide a hard core of authority, and von Steuben knew that the headquarters was not managed by the instruction of the commanding general. It was run by his wife.
He took his time reaching the headquarters, knowing he was still somewhat early for dinner. He enjoyed walking through the camp, appreciated the cordiality of the troops, something rare in European armies. As he stepped carefully down the snowy hill, his mind was focused, his latest project, a means of shortening the Prussian Manual at Arms, a version that might be distributed on paper to every company of men. He stepped along the icy banks of a small creek, thought, It must be brief, concise, something that can be learned in days, not months. Yet it must contain the essential formations, commands. He stopped, looked across the muddy snow to the house, the tall plume of gray smoke rising above. He could feel the softness under his boots, the snow melting, the creek more muddy than frozen. He studied the open ground, thought, Yes, it will be spring soon. He looked down toward the river, beyond the house, could see speckled patches of white and pink spread through the thickets of brush, the first buds, trees with names he didn’t know. He glanced down to the mud caking his boots, thought, That will be a problem. The roads will swallow an army, so no one will move for a while. But it will dry quickly. Already the warm air is coming. He looked down into the creek, the water moving in a narrow swift rush, driven by the thaw on the hill behind him.
He thought of the day’s drill, the formations. In Europe, men train for months to be called recruits. Here, we must train in weeks to be called soldiers. What army in Europe would endure what these men have suffered? He heard it still, the cries that met every officer, every tour by any man on horseback, from Washington to the occasional civilian. They call out from their dismal beds, no meat, no soldier. They make their protest, and then . . . they go about their duty. In Europe, this army would have simply dissolved, great bloody riots. He looked at the house again. They would come here as a mob, would have destroyed this place, taken every scrap of clothing and food, stolen every boot, and if the officers could not escape, they would be hanged. But the Americans . . . simply endure. If this army prevails in this war, it may be by the very suffering they have endured here, by their very survival. It is as if they understand that their cause is more important than their suffering. The British will never understand that. Even King Frederick would not understand. In Prussia, Austria, France, you instruct a soldier what to do, and he does it. Here, you tell them and they ask . . . why? Give us a good reason. If the reason is adequate, the deed is accomplished. It is a curious people.
He saw guards emerging from the house, the young Captain Gibbs now stepping down, the men moving away from the house, toward the creek. Gibbs saw him, seemed surprised, said, “General von Steuben, may I help you, sir?”
He could hear the distinct Virginia accent in the man’s voice, so different from the New England men.
“No, thank you, Captain. I’ll be to dinner now.”
“General Washington is in the dining cabin, sir. If there’s anything at all we can do, please inquire.”
The young man moved away, the guards falling into line behind him, a slow march toward their quarters. They hopped across the creek in turn, the mud splattering beneath them, and von Steuben watched them for a long moment, then made a wide step across the creek himself, moved to the door of the house.
The dinner was complete, brought to a close by a song, an unfamiliar melody, words von Steuben didn’t know. It had been Mrs. Washington’s idea, a frequent conclusion to the meals now, something prayerful, solemn. He had tried to follow the words, could un
derstand that it was a call for mercy, for sparing the lives of the young. He had stayed quiet, absorbing their mood, had focused on Washington, could see the man staring downward, his eyes closing, the words filled with obvious meaning. But when the song was finished, the mood passed, the officers and their wives rose from the table, solemnity giving way to smiles and cordiality. It was another of those odd American habits, finding a moment to reflect solely on the sadness, the horror of the world beyond these pleasant walls. As he stepped out into the chilly night, he thought, It is another difference, something that separates them from Europe. So often the foreign officers are men of high breeding and titled family, so far removed from the rabble of their army. They command vast armies of men they rarely see, and certainly never speak to, soldiers whose lives are reduced to sketches on paper, to lines of a map. The generals learn it from their monarchs, those who are barricaded in their own grand palaces, removed farther still from the people whose lives they hold in their hands. It is no wonder these men love their commander. It is an emotion that flows in both directions.
The party was dispersing, Washington’s staff assisting the ladies to their waiting carriages. Washington was not there, and von Steuben thought, He is already into the main house. Duponceau had pointed it out to him his first few days in the camp, Washington’s private entryway, the escape route from the social scene that might otherwise capture him in the dining area. It was a narrow door, cut into the side of the main house, that led directly to Washington’s office. Von Steuben looked at the guard, ever-present, one of Gibbs’ Virginians, a gruff-looking man who stood squarely in front of the door. Von Steuben smiled, thought, Not everything about this army is so casual.
He moved around the outside of the house, climbed the steps, moved inside, found himself alone in the hall. To one side he could hear the clatter of pewter dishes in the kitchen, small talk from the maids. He lingered in the hall for a moment, saw the glow of light from the far end of the hall, Washington’s office, and now a voice behind him, “General, are you lost?”
He turned, was towering over the petite round woman, said, “Mrs. Washington . . . no, not lost. Waiting. A moment only.”
“Are you waiting to see my husband? I am certain he is alone. Most everyone has retired. I was preparing to do the same.”
“Oh, thank you, yes. I will see him. Only a moment.”
She was smiling at him, the contagious softness that brought out a smile of his own.
“Are you not married, General? Your wife would certainly be welcome in this camp.”
“Oh, no, there is no wife. Difficult for me . . . my duties.”
“Forgive me, General. I do not mean to be impolite. I must say, your English is improving rather nicely.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He exaggerated the word, the touch of Virginia, and she laughed, her hand covering her mouth.
“I am proud to say, ma’am, I have entirely read Robinson Crusoe.”
“Marvelous, General. You should be proud. I shall be pleased to send for more books, if you would like. I believe everyone in this army would be honored by your efforts at our language. Many of the European officers have done very well with their English. My husband tells me that General Lafayette is nearly flawless.”
“Ah, yes. I do not meet General Lafayette yet, ma’am.”
“I have not either, General. He is to return here soon, I believe. My husband has a great affection for the young man. I am looking forward to making his acquaintance. I have never known my husband to make such a fuss over one of his officers. He regards General Lafayette very much as he would his own son.”
Von Steuben smiled again, had run out of words. He began to feel awkward, and she looked away, said, “Dear me, General, I truly must retire. I’m certain my husband will be pleased by your visit. I do not know any reason why you must continue to wait in the hall.”
He made a deep bow, realized she had sensed the uncomfortable moment, had removed it with the skill of a perfect hostess.
“Mrs. Washington, it has been my pleasure to speak for you.”
She laughed, her hand again on her mouth.
“Not quite correct, General. You’re learning though. Good evening, sir.”
She began to climb the stairs, and he waited for a moment, could hear her steps above him. He looked again down the hall, heard nothing from Washington’s office. He eased closer, made a sharp rap on the wall, peeked around the edge of the door, said, “General? Permit me, sir?”
Washington was at the tall desk, sat back, said, “Mr. von Steuben, by all means. Please, come in. Sit there.”
Von Steuben obeyed, kept his back straight, his hands at his sides. Washington said, “I did not see Mr. Duponceau this evening. Is he feeling all right?”
“Oh, quite, yes, sir. I excused him. I wished to . . . speak without him tonight.”
“Very well. Excellent. I admire the young man. Difficult duty, being an interpreter. I cannot imagine seeing my words pass through another man. Something is surely lost.” Washington seemed concerned, said, “If I am speaking too rapidly . . . please tell me.”
“Oh, no, sir. Not at all. It is good for my lessons. I can understand . . . mostly.” Von Steuben tried to relax, always felt tense around Washington, realized now it was the first time they had ever been alone.
“Did you wish to speak to me?”
“Oh, General, I apologize. I should not take your time.”
“Speak to me, General.”
“Sir, I observe your Captain Gibbs.”
“Caleb Gibbs? Yes, I selected him myself, captain of the guard. I know his family well. Is there some problem?”
“Oh, no, sir. Well, yes. Problem is that your guard is . . . all from Virginia, correct?”
“Yes. I required loyalty, General. In the beginning of this campaign, there was discussion in this army about hostility between the states. I regret some of that still prevails. It was thought that a guard from New Hampshire or New Jersey might not be so . . . efficient as one from my home. Virginians would tend to be more protective of Virginians.”
Von Steuben was frowning now.
“You don’t agree, General?”
“I agree with the . . . principle. But I disagree that it is necessary today. In fact, sir, I am feeling it is wrong. It could be a problem.”
Washington seemed surprised, said, “Please continue.”
“Sir, you have soldiers here from all over America. From what I see, they all follow you as their commander. This entire army is example of loyalty for the world. It is amazement. I have a suggestion, sir. I believe it is better for this army if you return their loyalty.”
“How do you mean?”
“They show you their loyalty. Show yours . . . to them. Your guard should be from each state. You select a few men from each state, you send message to all states. You respect them, you believe they will serve you as well as Virginians. Captain Gibbs, if he is a good officer, he can command more than just Virginians.”
Washington stared at him for a long moment, seemed to ponder the thought. Von Steuben felt uneasy, the tenseness returning, and Washington began to nod slowly, pointed his finger at him, said, “An unprejudiced eye. I am not accustomed to that in this command. I believe you are correct. Very well, if I am to have personal guards from every state, you will select them for me.”
Von Steuben was flattered.
“Yes, sir. I am happy to, sir.”
He was already thinking of the men from his drill classes, several who had stood out, who had shown a quick grasp of the lessons.
“I will begin tomorrow, sir. I should retire, now, sir. I have used your time too much.”
Washington looked at his desk, held up a piece of paper.
“This is how my time is spent, General. I was writing another letter to congress. I write perhaps ten per week. It is the most tedious duty of this command. This particular letter . . . I am attempting to inspire some of those gentlemen down there to compel their hom
e states to release new recruits to this army. The states continue to raise regiments, and are then determined to keep them within their borders as local defense forces. I have tried to communicate the obvious, that neither Delaware nor Connecticut nor New Hampshire is presently under siege.”
Von Steuben could hear the weariness in his voice, said, “Forgive me, sir. I do not understand so much of this . . . congress. In Europe, that word has become exalted. All that we know from Philadelphia, your Declaration of Independence. Inspires great respect, your congress is such men of character. When I visited through York, I saw . . . please, I am apologizing, sir.”
“Speak your mind, General. We are alone here.”
“There were but few. I hoped to see great hall of men, debating issues. I saw instead . . . parties. Food and wine. I was invited to stay, very kind hospitality. But I could not see that anyone there was fighting a war.”
Washington smiled, but von Steuben could see it was not good humor.
“Very astute observation, General. I cannot compel them to do anything they do not wish to do. And yet, my authority rests solely in their hands.”
“But . . . the states. The congress has no authority to the states?”
“That’s the most serious difficulty facing this army, General. Congress represents the American people, but it has no real authority. Congress can make requests of the state assemblies, but it cannot compel anything. My army is a continental army, composed of men from all thirteen states. This war is a war of independence for all thirteen states. But no state is obliged to offer support to the men who cross beyond their borders.”
“Sir, you are saying that this army fights for a government that is not . . . real. It has no power. How do you fight a war?”
“This is a war about an ideal, General. The American people are united in a cause. If we lose this war, if I am captured, I will likely be hanged. Every one of my officers here faces the same fate. Even . . . you. But what the British, what King George does not understand is that what happens to this army is not important. The cause cannot be defeated. No king, no army can capture a man’s mind, or the minds of an entire country. There is inspiration in that, General. In some ways, the American people have already won this war, because they have experienced what it is like to cast off an oppressive ruler. They have come to accept that they have rights, that no supreme power can command any of us to bow before him, except the Almighty God.”
