The tent began to leak through a burst seam; a steady trickle dropped onto the table, splattered the papers, and caused the ink to smear and run.
“Will all of you, except Tench, please excuse me,” he sighed.
His staff and the waiting generals obliged and filed out into the storm. Billy Lee closed the flap of the tent behind him. He overheard General Greene ask profanely where in the hell they should go now.
He promptly turned his attention back to Tench.
“Tell Sergeant Harris to go back down the Guelph Road toward the forge. The first house he reaches, I believe the name of the owner is Potts, tell him to ask respectfully if we might move in there for now. We will pay a fair price.”
He hesitated.
“That is, in Dutch silver, not Continentals.”
“Yes, sir.”
Washington picked up the three papers that had come in over the last day. It never ceased to amaze him just how much correspondence arrived. There were the letters from parents begging for news of the fate of a son last heard of during the Battle of Long Island. There were letters of complaint—a representative of Congress stated that soldiers had stolen five pigs and a cow, that he was shocked to hear of such behavior by troops under Washington’s command, and now threatened an investigation. Washington picked up the first of the three letters that had set off a long-simmering rage. The first bore a formal title: “A Letter of Remonstration.”
It was an official note from Congress declaring that the patriots of New Jersey were suffering under the yoke of British and Hessian depredation. He was hereby ordered to send the appropriate number of troops needed to drive the interlopers out of that state, reassert control, and capture the governor appointed by the Crown.
Incredible. Over twelve thousand of his men were huddled on these hills of Valley Forge, not one hut was yet built to shelter them, he possessed at most a hundred axes to fell the trees, there had been no food for two days…and he was to detach sufficient numbers to reoccupy New Jersey in a winter campaign? And while he was at it, capture the son of Ben Franklin, who had stayed loyal to the Crown?
He clenched the letter with his gloved hands and with frustrated disgust tossed it to one side.
“Sir, do you have a reply?” Tench asked. He made the gesture of trying to find a dry spot on the table to spread out a sheet of paper and produced a small ink pot from inside his jacket where he kept it ready during cold weather so that it would not freeze.
Tench, along with Billy Lee, was among the few he allowed to see his emotions of the moment. He was, after all, a gentleman and, as such, bore the responsibilities and displayed the expected behavior of a gentleman. He did not subscribe to the extravagant and overdramatized diffidence of the English aristocracy and their officer class, but instead always strived to portray the quiet, resolute gravitas of a leader of a free people, attempting to shape a republic.
And thus, in spite of the boiling rage, he forced a smile.
“Nothing we can write down yet, Tench. Let it wait for now.”
Tench returned the smile.
He scanned the next letter. It was yet another letter of remonstration. This one was from a committee of state representatives of Pennsylvania, proclaiming that there were no Tory loyalists left in the region surrounding Philadelphia, that all were patriots who supported the cause of freedom, and that, therefore, he, General Washington, was hereby ordered to cease this unwise retreat to the north, turn around, and defend the patriotic citizens of the region to the west and south of Philadelphia. In addition, it was expected, before the year was out, that Philadelphia and those within the city who cried out for liberty would be free of the brutal occupation and, in so doing, restore trust in the name of General Washington.
The last line stung deeply. Unless I wager this army in a desperate bid, Congress itself is now openly saying it has lost its trust in me.
Deep in the pile of papers was a note that only Tench knew about. A note from “a friend” within Congress. Gates, the hero of Saratoga, was even now being feted in York, where food was plentiful, of course, and already he was being held up as the appropriate replacement for the incompetent Washington, who had lost Philadelphia and with it, the hope of French acknowledgment and support.
He knew the rumors to be true. A year ago he had placed great trust in his friend Doctor Benjamin Rush, but, since the fall of Philadelphia, and the reported looting of Rush’s home, even his private correspondence had grown somewhat icy. Rush was asking if there was any hope whatsoever of retaking the city by a coup de main such as the one that had brought success at Trenton this time a year ago.
If even Rush was now doubting me, when would the axe fall? If ordered to do so, of course, he would resign and return to Mount Vernon. In some ways he even longed for that release. But he knew as well, without any sense of self-inflation, that his forced resignation would doom this Revolution.
Gates was a strutting political fool. If anyone had gained the victory at Saratoga, it was his own friend Benedict Arnold. But Arnold was down with yet another crippling wound; this time he had nearly lost his leg, and he would not be fit for field command until spring. Arnold would not be the right choice anyhow. He remained a New Englander of volatile temperament who still needed grooming before being given an independent command. Washington’s personal choice would be Nathanael Greene, but he was, unfortunately, another New Englander like Arnold. He had learned to set aside his prejudices against these hard-shelled Yankees—they had proven their worth often enough in battle—but there was a firm realization that the leader of this war had to come from the middle states in order to hold the thirteen independent together.
Gates tried to claim he was a son of Virginia. In reality he had been born and bred in England and had served as an officer with the British army for nearly two decades, leaving for America only when his ambitions for higher command were thwarted because he lacked the proper influence and the money needed to purchase command of a regiment.
And now Gates was maneuvering for the highest command of all, the entire army. Every general beneath him had come close to mutiny during the Saratoga campaign—in fact, Arnold had been under arrest when the climactic battle started, for calling Gates, in front of the troops, a damnable fool who would serve them all better by going over to the other side. Arnold had broken free from confinement, rushed to the front line, and was nearly killed rallying the soldiers who were beginning to flee, and then himself led them to victory.
Gates, ever the consummate politician, through dispatches and by personally appearing before Congress, garnered the laurels of victory for himself while at the same time denouncing every other general. He had even taken the nearly unbelievable step of seeking a political appointment, head of a congressional committee, the Board of War, while still serving in the field, technically under Washington’s direct command. As head of that board, he bypassed his supposed superior officer, routing all of his correspondence and self-aggrandizing reports directly to Congress. At the civilian level, Washington now technically answered to the board, even while its head served in the field and was supposed to answer to him. The arrangement was so absurd that even the British were laughing at it, as yet another sign of the irrationality of this rebel experiment, which was obviously descending into an arguing mob whose self-serving and factional maneuverings would inevitably lead to self-destruction.
If Gates gained ultimate command, Washington knew with utter certainty that the Revolution would be lost.
He sighed and tossed the second letter to one side.
“Same as the first, Tench,” he announced. “I’ll send some reply in a day or two.”
What reply? That I take umbrage with the statement that Congress feels I need to restore my honorable name?
It was the third letter on the pile that he had to face next, and that truly produced an explosion of rage. It was a letter from the Commissary Department of Congress, informing him that supplies, or lack of supplies, at Valley Forge w
as now his responsibility.
“My responsibility,” he hissed through clenched teeth, picking up the note and looking at it again.
If, by some miracle, using some strange device conceived of and built by Doctor Franklin, he could fly to York in an instant, he would pick up the authors of this infamous tatter of failed promises and lies, wing them here, deposit them in front of his troops, and let them endure the taunts he had just heard, the agonies he had just witnessed.
If only the Congress could spend a week in the field with his men. If only they could come out of their warm rooms, pleasant banquets, and evenings of good drink in front of a fire and learn what the War of Independence was really like. But then they wouldn’t be the same politicians who now infested this Congress.
He had communicated his intention to retreat to this place weeks ago and here build winter quarters. There was, as well, more than a hint of advice on his part that rather than adjourn themselves to the far bank of the Susquehanna, the Congress should reconstitute here, with the army, and share their lot with them. Or at least choose Reading instead. The British were openly mocking the flight to York as an act of wanton self-preservation and cowardice, and asserting that by spring a few companies of dragoons would cause them to spring in terror to the far banks of the Mississippi or perhaps even seek refuge in the Spanish lands of the far Pacific coast.
And now this? He thought of the man holding up his frostbitten, dead feet. Chances were good he would not survive the amputations.
“Is this my reward for standing with you since Long Island, sir?”
If but Congress would convene here. Would any of them offer to take that man and put him in his bed tonight, and would any stand his watch, having first taken off his shoes and humbly offering them, as if any shoes at all could now fit those swollen, disfigured members.
He knew what some whispered. It was the same whisper down through the long millennia of history. The same whisper that had beguiled Sulla, Caesar, Cromwell, and so many others. It was the whisper that if at this moment he rode back out, called his men together, and announced they would march on York, arrest Congress, and seize the food they most likely had well hidden away, nearly all would follow him.
He let the thought dwell for a moment. Whether, he were in control of this fight and by placing officers such as Greene, Wayne, and Arnold in the right commands, finding the supplies needed, he could drive the enemy out of Philadelphia and into the sea next spring.
He sighed, sitting back, rubbing his eyes.
He knew, only too well…it was the voice of Satan.
It was the voice that had betrayed every revolution throughout history. The voice whispering to a general so falsely used by the politicians he must take orders from, until at last came a day, for some out of their own desires, perhaps for others out of sympathy and loyalty to the men who followed them, that they should strike down the very government they were sworn to obey, with the wild, mad dream that once things were set aright, the “proper authorities” could be restored.
It was the whispered voice of Satan, of betrayal, of a history to come that would then be stained by coup, countercoup, revolution, and yet another revolution, a dream for a future nation that, in the end, would be a land as blood-soaked and tyrannical as Europe and the realms of the Eastern potentates.
He held the letter between thumb and forefinger, and then, with a defiant gesture, tossed it to the frozen ground.
“No reply at all to that one, Tench,” he said, his voice husky with emotion.
“Yes, sir.”
“We can no longer count on Congress for our supplies. I will therefore use the authorization given to me. I still have several hundred Dutch dollars in my possession, some English guineas as well. Pass the word to the other officers of some worth that I expect them to make the appropriate contributions as well.”
He hesitated, Tench smiling. Tench, he knew, was a wealthy man, but of a family that this war had torn apart. His father was a king’s official appointee; all his male siblings and relatives were either serving the Crown forces or wearing the uniform of Loyalist regiments.
“I still have three pounds sterling, sir, and a brooch containing a portrait of my mother mounted in gold that is worth several pounds more.” Tench fell silent for a moment. “Put that in with the rest, sir.”
Washington, his throat constricted with emotion, was afraid to reply.
“Parties to be formed of reliable, trustworthy men who for good measure should be devout Christians as well and not given to thievery. They are to fan out, seeking to purchase supplies for this army, along with all tools necessary for the construction of shelters. I will authorize that if such tools cannot be purchased they are to be borrowed, with receipts given, to be returned once our encampment and proper fortifications have been built.”
“Very good, sir.”
He settled back on the stool. The thin stream of ice water dripping down through the tent from outside was increasing now to a steady cascade. If they had not been in so desperate a situation, there would have been almost a strange, comic quality to the moment. He wondered how General Howe would react if caught in similar circumstances. Undoubtedly a dozen men of various ranks would be expressing their dismay, holding up their cloaks over Howe’s head, thinking themselves to thus be immortalized the way Sir Walter Raleigh had been with the gesture of a cloak laid beneath the feet of a queen.
“Sir.”
It was Billy Lee, half opening the tent flap and peering in.
“What is it, Billy?”
“Dispatch rider reporting in from Major Clark and Colonel Morgan.”
“Show him in.”
Tench stood up to open the flap wide. Washington, at this moment strangely cognizant of his role, remained in his seat, as if under this cascade of ice water he was simply carrying on the routine of a commander in chief. Willing himself to endure the discomfort rather than avoid it. Feeling it as one more proof of the virtuous burden of freedom.
The man came in, walking in a strange, shuffling gait that somehow triggered a memory. Washington stood up, his stool falling backwards. “Old Moses?” he exclaimed.
The man gazed up at him with genuine delight, a toothless smile cracking his face, even offering what he thought was a salute, a quick knuckling of his forehead with his left hand while he produced the dispatch with his right.
Breaking custom, Washington grasped the man’s hand.
Moses was old, at least by the reckoning of the frontier, twenty years ago. As a young man, the general had shared more than one campfire with this unusual frontiersman out along the Ohio, never tiring of hearing his story, which with time became more embellished, of his capture, torture, and scalping by the Shawnee. He had had no idea that this old man, who surely must be an ancient of sixty-five years or more of age, was actually serving with the army.
“General, you got anything to drink? It is colder than the devil’s tail out there.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Nothing but some half coffee, half chickory.”
“Damn, I should have stayed with Dan, he could always find a jug or two, properly, of course, begging your pardon, sir.”
“Maybe one of my men can find you something I’m not aware of,” he offered, nodding to Billy Lee to find a drink for his guest.
Taking the crumpled dispatch, he opened it up. He read slowly at first, but then hurriedly sweeping to the end. He handed it over to Tench, who read it as well. His aide broke into a grin.
“A full brigade?” Washington asked, looking back at Moses. “Yup, sir, seen them myself, and you know I got the sharpest eyes of any man alive, and be damned to my age.”
“I believe you. Now tell me their composition. What units?”
And Moses rattled off the details just as Clark’s letter had reported, a mixed command primarily of light infantry, dragoons, several companies of heavy infantry, perhaps a battalion, more than two hundred wagons—and the most tempting of all…no artillery sighted,
and the belief that Howe himself might be with them.
He looked over at Tench.
“Find Generals Greene and Wayne immediately.”
Tench leapt from his chair and ran out to fetch the generals.
“Moses, thank you. I’ll have a reply written to Colonel Morgan for you to take back. Billy Lee will bring you something warm to drink.”
“Thank ya, General.”
Moses looked at him appraisingly.
“And you, barely out from behind your mother’s skirts when I first laid eyes on you, begging your pardon, sir. Knew then you would be an important man some day, God bless ya. Never dreamed it would be this important, though. You’re the future we fight for.”
Embarrassed by this outpouring, and glad that Tench and Billy Lee had not witnessed it, he shook Moses’s hand again and guided him out of the tent.
The two generals came in, each reading the note in turn, but his enthusiasm was not reflected by the gazes they exchanged when they finally passed the note back to him.
“What is it, gentlemen?” he asked.
“Sir,” Wayne asked. “Are you proposing that this army march now, today?”
“I doubt if we could today. Let us see how this raid of Howe’s develops. They might be back across the Schuylkill by nightfall. But if they stay on this side, I would propose we march at midnight, just as we did last year before Trenton. The left wing of the advance to seize the Middle Ford and block retreat. The main body to then fall upon this brigade and defeat it in detail.”
Neither spoke in reply.
“Gentlemen?”
Greene nervously cleared his throat.
“Sir, you rode out there an hour ago. You saw the men.”
“Yes, I saw them.”
“And you heard them.”
He did not reply.
“Sir, this army is finished. It is played out.”
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 7
