by Jeff Shaara
He had ordered a general cleansing of the camp, the cabins emptied of all bedding, the accumulated decay opened up to the warm air. With the cabins clean, the focus turned to the men, and Washington was delighted by the sudden arrival of supplies of soap and vinegar. The men were lined up along the banks of the Schuylkill, and each man was instructed to bathe, allowing himself no more than ten minutes in the water. Washington had always believed, as did his doctors, that immersing a man’s body in water for a lengthy soaking could inspire a variety of illnesses. But the caution expressed in his orders was hardly necessary. Despite the welcoming bath, every man who stepped gingerly into the river realized that winter was not so far behind them after all. Even this late in the season, the waters of the river were cascading down from melting ice far upstream. Any man who could actually endure a full ten-minute bath found his skin turning blue.
With the warming air came the pungent aroma of the filthy ground around the cabins. Squads of men were given shovels, the alleys and narrow roads scraped clean, the rancid dirt hauled away. With the melting of the snow, the grass had returned to the fields, and though it was not ideal feed for the horses, they were allowed to graze, as were the small herds of cattle that began to arrive on the hardening roads.
The wagons were arriving with a frequency that surprised everyone in the camp. With a new spirit, and the authority that Greene carried straight into the halls of congress, the supplies had begun to move, a slow trickle that was now widening into a steady flow. From the docks of New England, from the warehouses in Baltimore and Norfolk, wagons were pressed into service, drivers were encouraged by soldiers to perform with a new energy. Even before the weather offered relief to the huddled nakedness of the soldiers, Washington’s army began to see meat again, and flour that was untainted by careless handling. In the towns beyond Valley Forge, Greene’s men discovered great piles of linen and cotton, the bounty from the French merchant ships, forgotten in seaside warehouses. Making use of the fabric was an overwhelming task for the army’s few clothiers, so Greene took the fat rolls of cloth into the towns. In places like Bethlehem and Lancaster, they found women who knew how to sew, who offered their skills as a patriotic service, the one gift they could provide the men of their army. The patriotic pride of a talented seamstress even extended into York, wives of congressmen offering to work as well. What Greene’s predecessor had ignored as bothersome cargo, was now cut and fashioned into pants and shirts and stockings, uniforms for men who had for so long gone about their duty in near nakedness. Because of Greene’s astounding efforts, Washington realized that so much of the suffering and deprivation his men had endured was due not to a lack of patriotism, nor even a lack of concern in congress. For the most part, it was caused by the astonishing incompetence of the quartermaster department.
He was at his desk, was forming the words, yet another plea to someone in congress who might settle the nervousness that plagued him still about the rumors from France. He went through the names, thought of Henry Laurens, the president, probably his closest ally in congress. Laurens’ son John had become a valuable and efficient member of his staff, and he thought, Perhaps I should have him deliver this letter himself. They might ignore me, but surely Mr. Laurens will not ignore his son. He stared at the blank paper, dipped the pen in the inkstand, held the pen above the paper, but no words came. He stabbed the pen back into the small bottle, said aloud, “I have no patience for this.”
He pushed the chair away from the desk, pulled himself up, moved into the hall. There were heavy boot steps on the stairway, and he saw Tilghman step down into the hall, the young man caught by surprise.
“Oh! Sir, may I do something . . . may I be of service?”
“Come with me, Mr. Tilghman. I require some sunshine.”
They moved out into the yard, and Washington stepped down into soft mud, saw the grooms responding, the horses led toward them quickly. He climbed up, anchored himself in the saddle, waited as Tilghman did the same. Washington could hear shouts, laughter, said, “That’s coming from the river. We should make an inspection. I am in need of good cheer.”
He spurred the horse, moved out into the muddy road, down along the bank of the river. The water was swift, no sign of the ice that had lined the banks, and he could hear the laughter again, farther downstream. He pushed the horse through a narrow path in the brush, could see the troops, men barely clothed, jumping into and out of the water, great splashes, thought, Bathing yet again?
“Mr. Tilghman, I thought they had completed this duty. We should not encourage such recreation.”
Tilghman was beside him now, said, “I will see to it, sir.”
The young man moved forward, and Washington searched the crowd for an officer, someone in command, saw no one he recognized. He felt himself scowling, thought, This is not what I require just now. He jabbed at the horse with his spurs, rode up along a tall bank, could see men now scrambling into the water, then out again. They were not bathing, there was no order, no line. There was motion on the riverbank, small flecks of silver, and he rode closer, eased the horse back down toward the water, could see now, the bank was alive with a slithering mass of fish.
Behind him, more men were shouting, running down from the plateau, joining the commotion, plunging into the river. They carried bits of wood, small pots, blankets, anything that could be used as a scoop. The water was swirling with rippling motion in a section of the river nearly thirty yards long. The shouts brought still more men over the hill behind him. Along the bank, men were tossing their prizes up onto the higher ground, others piling the fish into baskets or larger pots. Tilghman rode back up toward him now, said, “It’s a shad run, sir! The river is full of fish!”
“I see that, Mr. Tilghman. Quite a bounty.”
He could see the wave of fish passing up to the left, moving away from the gathering of troops. Men were scrambling up the bank, trying to move out in front of the fish, but the swarm was swimming upriver faster than the troops could surround them. Tilghman said, “It seems to be passing, sir. A good catch though. Someone will make a nice feast of this.”
Men were pulling themselves out the water, some still carrying their catch, and Washington felt himself opening up to their excitement, said, “I have never seen this before. But they’re getting away.”
“Yes, sir. It’s how it goes. You only catch them when they swim past.”
“We shall turn them around then!”
He spurred the horse, moved quickly down to the bank, rode along the edge of the water, caught up to the swirling tide. He looked back, saw men standing in the river, watching him, few moving at all now. He shouted, “Here! I will stop them!”
He pulled hard on the reins, drove the horse straight into the river, the icy water shocking him, soaking his legs. The horse bounced high, reared back, and Washington gripped the reins in one hand, grabbed his hat, waved it low, toward the water. He spun the horse around, and the tide of fish stopped their advance, seemed to back away down the river.
“Now, gentlemen, now! Retrieve them!”
The troops were still watching him with stunned amazement, but finally they understood what he had done. They began to scramble along the bank, some plunging into the water again, into the midst of the fish. The catch began again, the laughter and shouting as men wrestled with fish, gathering them into their arms, tossing them up on the bank. He was still waving the hat, shivering with excitement, soaked through by the cold water. He saw Tilghman on the bank, watching him with a look of panicked concern. He began to laugh along with his men, exhausted soldiers struggling up the bank, some collapsing among the fish. The men were mostly out of the water now, the fish they could not catch slipping past him, out of reach upstream. He eased the horse toward the bank, put the hat on his head, felt the shock of ice water down his neck. The men were cheering him, some holding up fish in both hands, and he climbed the bank, held tightly as the horse shook itself free of the water. Tilghman followed him, and Washington said
, “A fine day for a swim, Colonel! A bit chilly yet.”
The men were gathering the fish together, hauling them away toward the camp. He sat dripping in the saddle, felt weak with the cold, and the laughter that still rolled out of him.
“A fish dinner, gentlemen! More for salting!”
He waved to the men, heard another round of cheers, said to Tilghman, “I should change my uniform. My wife would have a cross word certainly.”
He waved to the men, spurred the horse up the hill, Tilghman close behind. He reached the crest, could see all along the river, the men enjoying their new work, the feast that the entire army would enjoy. He felt the sunshine, stopped the horse.
“I recall our talk in Trenton, Mr. Tilghman.”
“Sir?”
“Fishing. I recall that I asked you about fishing.”
“Yes, sir. I recall as well.”
“This was . . . an adventure. The men enjoyed it, certainly. I don’t know how often this sort of . . . shad run occurs.”
“It’s the springtime, sir. They swim upstream to spawn.”
“Ah, of course. The design of the Almighty. This could be more than just an occurrence of nature, Mr. Tilghman. It was a gift, an extraordinary bounty. It is possible that the Almighty is showing us some favor.”
“Certainly, sir. This army has endured much.”
He felt the sun on his back, a delicious warming. The chill was gone, and he looked upward, closed his eyes, absorbed the heat on his face.
“Indeed, Mr. Tilghman. That we have.”
He sat quietly for a long moment, then turned away from the sun. He could see out toward the camp, the commissary officers responding to handle the incredible catch. There was already a sense of order, tables set up for the fish, the process of cleaning them, cloth sacks of salt appearing, barrels of brine. He looked down the long hill to the headquarters, thought of the letter he had tried to write, the annoyance of the day’s task. I will not be concerned with that just now. There was another sign here as well, something I should not ignore. There is a spirit to this army, a goodness and a joy in these men that has returned. It is another gift from the Almighty. I will respect that, I will celebrate with them the renewal of our strength, all the good that comes with the new season.
The congress, all his impatience, seemed very far away. He looked back to the river, laughed again, said, “I am fairly certain, Mr. Tilghman, that I have finally experienced a successful day’s fishing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tilghman didn’t sound completely convinced, and Washington looked at the young man, saw a hint of a smile.
“You have something to say, Colonel?”
“Um, no, sir.”
“Yes, well, perhaps next time I will attempt to fish from someplace other than the back of a horse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are too serious, sometimes, Mr. Tilghman.” He eased the horse forward, saw movement around the headquarters, a rider, and Tilghman said, “It’s General Lafayette, sir.”
“I see him.”
Lafayette rode quickly, pushed the horse up the narrow roadway, and Washington waited for him. The young man was there quickly, his horse bouncing to a sudden stop, and Lafayette said, “General! You should see this, sir!” The young man pulled a newspaper from his coat. “Three days ago, sir! Appears to be a complete text!”
Washington took the paper, saw it was the Pennsylvania Gazette, dated May 1. The entire front page was one story, and he fought the sun in his eyes as he read. Lafayette said, “We don’t appear to require the confirmation from the congress, sir. Here it is, in full detail.”
Washington read further, felt the chill again, but it came not from the water in his clothes, but someplace deep inside of him. He read to the bottom of the page, felt a hard knot in his throat, and Tilghman said, “Sir? What is it?”
He couldn’t speak, handed the paper to his aide, looked at Lafayette now, saw tears on the young man’s cheek. He nodded, fought his own tears, knew Lafayette was feeling the same emotion, more perhaps. The young man had come to this army as a renegade from his king, and now, in full glorious detail, were the words that Washington had been so desperate to read. King Louis was as committed to their cause as the young marquis. The paper was a full text of the formal alliance between the government of France and the United States of America. No longer would French merchants be forced to perform their business in secret, no longer would the American cause be regarded with hesitation and reluctance. It was the first acknowledgment by a foreign power that America was a nation in its own right and should be free of English control. It was formal recognition, made powerful far beyond the supplying of goods, the extension of credit. France was now preparing to send her own soldiers and warships to American ports, to fight on American soil. France was entering the war.
MAY 6, 1778
It was a grand celebration, a festive display for the entire army. From all over the surrounding countryside, from the towns that had finally risen up to support their troops, the people came, long lines of civilian carriages, entire families, rolling through the outposts of their army to participate in this joyous day. The salutes were boisterous and loud, punctuated by artillery fire, a vast fireworks show for both soldiers and civilians. The parade and festivities would extend throughout the entire day, the army turned out in review, the day concluding with a huge outdoor picnic. It was a marvelous show, and when the civilians finally made their way home, they carried a new appreciation for their army, were surprised by the crisp formations, the precise marching. They had heard all manner of rumor of what was occurring at Valley Forge, the starvation and disease, the army that had virtually ceased to be. But as deep as their surprise, the civilians could not be as profoundly surprised as their commander in chief. Washington had sat tall on the white horse as the men had gone through their drill, had watched in amazement as they performed a stunning feat of musketry, long lines of troops, each man firing his musket in turn, one by one, all along the line, a display of perfect synchronization. It was a show worthy of any professional army in Europe, and Washington had absorbed the spectacle with a brief look to the one man who had brought it into being. Von Steuben had watched the drill with stern-faced pride, the regiments and brigades moving in crisp rhythm, performing the marches with flawless perfection. The Prussian’s stiff countenance had broken only once, and he had returned Washington’s look with a sly smile, acknowledging his commander’s silent salute. He knew, as Washington knew, as every man in formation knew, that this was a different army than what had first come to this place, than the men who had struggled to build their small log city. With the new spring had come a renewed spirit and a new pride. They had, after all, survived the most dire hardships of their lives. And the reward, besides the discipline and camaraderie the Prussian had taught them, was an alliance with France.
For the first time since the war had begun, Washington faced the start of a new campaign with a strange and unexpected eagerness. For the first time, it might not be necessary to wait for the enemy to show his intentions. For the first time, Washington’s army was prepared to make a fight on its own terms.
34. GREENE
MAY 19, 1778
His visits to the camp were more frequent now. The quartermaster staff in York and in the outposts all through the adjoining states were operating with the same renewed spirit as the army they provided for, and Greene had confidence that they no longer required his heavy hand and his temper to perform their jobs. Though he still held the office, and the responsibility, with the coming of spring came the renewed threat of a campaign by the British, and Washington had made good his promise, that Greene would still hold his command in the field.
He needed very little incentive to return to Valley Forge. When Martha Washington came to headquarters, it had opened the way for other wives as well. Leaving the children in safe hands, Kitty had come down from Rhode Island, she and the infant both now recovered from the difficult ordeal o
f childbirth. The year before, at Morristown, she had arrived so close to the time the army would return to the field, that their brief time together had been more painful than comforting. But now there was time, and she had made them a home, close to the other commanders’ wives. Even if her husband could not always be a part of the dinners and festivities, Kitty Greene had quickly become popular, especially with the foreign officers. She had a moderate skill with French, and opened their quarters to gatherings for those officers whose poor English had often kept them isolated. Her willingness to offer a softer side to conversation was appreciated by the men who had kept so much to themselves, so accustomed only to the companionship of soldiers. She had also become a favorite of Martha Washington, the two women sharing the modest sense of hospitality, both making known their quiet disapproval of card games or excessive drinking. Kitty shared Martha’s love for singing, and even if neither woman had a particular talent for the art, together they were formidable partners, could encourage even the most unwilling officer to participate in the after-dinner entertainment.
It would likely be a typical evening at the headquarters, the officers now escorting their wives out of the carriages. He held her arm in his, walked out away from the house, careful to avoid any patches of mud. The roads were hard, broken only by small puddles from a brisk rain shower, a slight chill to the soft morning. But the day had warmed bright and clear, all signs of the dismal winter completely gone. They crossed the road, moved past the blacksmith compound, stepped close to the creek that fed into the Schuylkill. The land was open, gentle hills falling away, another long rise out to the west. There were still flowers on some of the trees, some completely draped in soft white, others flecked with bits of pink and red. But mostly the land beyond was bathed in soft green, the rebirth of woods and open fields. She held tight to his arm, said, “This is a beautiful place. How did you choose it?”
