Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

“So you will not march as ordered?”

  “You, sir, are in no position to question my response to those orders, nor do I see any reason to have you privy to secret plans I will not even discuss with my other officers.”

  He offered a cold smile. “Even the Great Frederick kept his own counsel at times.”

  “I had hoped for better cooperation,” Conway replied.

  “You have received all proper respect as befitting your proper command as defined by the authority given to me by Congress. If Congress should wish to openly change that procedure, they are, of course, free to do so, and I shall comply.”

  He knew his last words were an open challenge, and he instantly regretted saying them. This crisis was balancing on a knife’s edge. Conway’s actions now made it all too clear that in short order Gates and his Board of War would push to have a change in command. Conway’s visit to this army served no other purpose than for him to be an errand boy, to run back to York with a scathing report as to the abysmal condition of the army to be used as ammunition against Washington and his officers.

  “Be certain, sir, I shall give a most accurate report. I shall leave in the morning.”

  “Then good day to you, sir.”

  Conway actually hesitated. He was obviously waiting for some display of protocol, an invitation to remain here for dinner and shelter for the night, but Washington would not budge.

  Conway stepped back from the desk and offered a curt nod.

  “Good day to you, General Washington.”

  “Good day to you, Colonel Conway.”

  The man pulled the door open and stalked out. Seconds later Washington could hear the door out of the house slamming shut.

  Lafayette, Hamilton, and Tilghman, without bidding, stood in the doorway to the small office, which had until the day before been Mrs. Hewes’s parlor.

  He looked up at them.

  “What is it?” he asked crossly.

  Tilghman nervously cleared his throat.

  “Any orders, sir?”

  “No! No orders!”

  The three withdrew.

  He sat silent, staring at the fire.

  He had to fight fire with fire. This move by Gates was in fact a mistake, an open warning of what he intended. Conway was too ambitious in his own right, lacking in any subtlety. The smart move would have been to ingratiate, to act as a supposed ally.

  He had learned much of politics in the last two years, more than he had ever learned in his years in the Virginia House of Burgesses at Williamsburg. He would have to fight back, even as he fought a real war, one that was far easier in his mind to grasp.

  “General Lafayette, Major Tilghman.”

  The door opened as if they had been waiting for the summons, and he motioned for them to enter and pull up chairs by his desk.

  “We need to discuss a few things,” he said quietly, feeling more than a little uneasy with what he was requesting.

  Lafayette, of course, had his own supporters and enemies both on this shore and abroad. Tilghman, though his family had gone Loyalist, knew more than a few influential members of Congress who might still be sitting on the fence. He was also friends with John Laurens, who now served with this army, his father the current president of Congress.

  He would not ask directly, but if they were aware of what Gates and his messenger Conway were planning, they would know how to act and to whom to write.

  Another war was now to be fought to determine if this army and with it this Revolution were to survive.

  The task of standing sentry before the entryway to headquarters was an easy and coveted position which Peter had been more than glad to take when Tilghman, through Sergeant Harris, had offered it to him. He was, after all, one of the few men of the headquarters guard company who looked at least something like a proper soldier, and, thanks to Mrs. Hewes’s dosings, he did not need to run off every thirty minutes to relieve himself.

  Harris stood with him on the other side of the door, and as Lafayette and Tilghman emerged, heads together, whispering to each other, the two exchanged knowing glances, though nothing would be said between them until they were relieved of the watch.

  Peter had stood directly beneath the window of the general’s office and had heard more than a few words of the exchange with Conway. He was not in any way eavesdropping, to be certain, for the window was shut fast, but the voices of both at times carried. The way Conway had entered the building with such a haughty air and stormed out an hour later was evidence enough. The snatches of conversation between Lafayette and Tilghman added to the information he and Harris had garnered without any intention of listening in.

  Since joining the guard company, Peter had learned to keep his mouth shut. Wherever he went, if men recognized his uniform they would try to pump him for “the latest word” even officers would approach him at times, and Harris had drilled him hard to keep his mouth shut. A private did not last long with this company if it became evident he was spreading gossip.

  But this?

  What would the army say if they knew a move was afoot to overthrow the general? Some might jeer, even greet it, but most of those would be gone in five more days when enlistments were up.

  But of the others, who would stay? What would they think and do as soldiers loyal to Washington?

  He knew that he and his sergeant would talk long into the night about this one, for he would be damned if he would ever serve under someone who betrayed the general he had fought beside at victories at Trenton and Princeton, and even the defeats at Brandywine and Germantown. In his eyes, Washington was indeed the Revolution, and he would not see him betrayed.

  Chapter Five

  Valley Forge

  January 1, 1778

  “Are they assembled?”

  Tilghman, Hamilton, and Lafayette stood by the doorway without speaking. There were simply nods of affirmation and that told Washington all that he needed to know of what was to come. Most likely, while he had slept for a few fitful hours, his tireless aides and comrades had been hard at work trying to change the opinions of the men he was about to face…but to no avail.

  He took a deep breath and felt a moment of self-consciousness as he looked at the small mirror next to the coatrack. He must look the part, cheeks still glowing pink from shaving. Though the blood from a razor nick had stopped, Billy Lee was beside himself with apologies for the cut, which Washington had dismissed with a smile. Poor Billy, so accomplished in so many things, had never mastered the art of barbering. His skills came into play when he had mounted and was on the chase. Not to mention that most annoying habit of trying to put himself between his master and the volley fire of a British line, or simply sitting quietly, when his master needed to speak out loud his innermost thoughts, thoughts that Billy would never share with another.

  Ironic, he thought, as he looked sidelong at Billy standing in the kitchen. Billy, of course, had never learned to write. What a book he could someday write if he were able. Then again, he was the servant of a gentleman and would never violate his trust, for what would history say if Billy Lee recorded all that he knew and felt about his master, but also his general, his confidant and, yes, his friend?

  Major Hamilton opened the door. Taking a deep breath in the frigid air, Washington stepped out. It had snowed several days before, the temperature falling well below freezing. Almost a blessing, since the ground was frozen, making walking a bit easier on the men than trudging through the thick, glue-like mud encountered on the march to this place.

  His mount, bridle held by the young New Jersey private, awaited him. The guard company was drawn up, colors unfolded, fluttering in the cold morning breeze out of the west. He gained the saddle, took the reins, and turned toward the open gate. The guard company fell in behind him with a ruffle and flourish of drums and fifes. They struck up “Chester,” and the small procession went out the gate of Mrs. Hewes’s farmstead and up the slope to the main encampment.

  He rode in silence, staff behind him, followed by
the color guard, escorts, and musicians. He spared a quick glance back, a pathetic procession, men and horses struggling for footing on the icy slope. Troops that he passed as he rode up the slope paused in their labors, coming to attention and saluting. At least there were no shouted taunts like those that had greeted him a week ago, for a trickle of food was finally coming in. Not enough for full rations, though he had ordered that for yesterday and today, which meant that tomorrow they would again be out of food unless Providence were kind with today’s attempts to buy supplies. But in this tragic farce he was now engaged in, even two days of full rations might make the difference, and divert thoughts about tomorrow for at least some.

  The troops he was about to address were arrayed in formation below the crest of the ridge—just where the defensive works, of which not one shovelful had been turned yet, would eventually be dug.

  Nearly three thousand, a quarter of his entire army, awaited him, deployed in regimental columns, most of them men of the Pennsylvania Line, but some units as well from New York, Jersey, New England, and even his own Virginia.

  By and large, they were good troops, veterans of Brandywine and Germantown, men who had endured much. But now their enlistments, of six months or a year, were up. If not for the military formation and the fact that they shouldered muskets, few would ever mistake them for soldiers. There was still a scattering of regulation uniforms, but most were dressed in cast-off civilian breeches or ankle-length trousers, nearly all with threadbare blankets drawn around their shoulders to ward off the cold wind. A momentary scattering of snow flurries greeted his approach as low, scudding clouds raced across the sky.

  As usual, most of the men were barefoot, feet wrapped in winding cloths of canvas, burlap, or torn blankets. At least with the ground frozen solid, the foot wrappings were relatively dry.

  He turned to ride parallel to the formation, passing a dozen or so feet in front of each regiment, saluting the colors of each unit as he passed, color guards looking up at him, saying nothing, officers rigid, swords drawn in salute.

  And none spoke. There was no spontaneous call for a cheer for him, for the army, for the Revolution. Only silence, and that silence told him everything…that this was indeed a forlorn hope.

  He reached the center of the formation, musicians behind him falling silent. As he had done so often in the past, he humbled himself and began his appeal.

  The words were the same, an appeal that now was the time to stand firm with the ranks. The enemy was but twenty miles distant in Philadelphia, and even as they now met, by this evening spies would report all that transpired here. If a quarter of the army this day marched off, it would only embolden their foes, but if they stood firm, it would strike as hard as any victory that could be gained on the field of battle.

  He spoke of the promise of food, uniforms, fresh supplies soon to come pouring in, and those words nearly stuck in his throat, for he knew that such promises bordered on untruth, for their staying would mean the need for thousands of additional rations to be found between now and tomorrow.

  The very act of their leaving would in fact reduce his burden by a quarter for the total need of food and shelters yet to be built.

  He implored them to think of their honor, so hard fought for and won on the battlefield, which would now melt away. He closed with another promise, which again stuck in his throat, the promise of pay if only they would sign on for but three more months…

  And then he was done.

  Silence greeted him. He swept the ranks with his gaze. Some lowered their heads, but many returned his look with cold, dispassionate eyes.

  There were no spoken rejections, as he had feared there would be when riding to meet them. Just silence, and that in a way was even more terrible. He could have borne cries of protest, a release of passion that perhaps could somehow be turned around in the end with at least some stepping forward to put their names on roster rolls.

  But not a word was said. Those protests had been voiced the night before, when he had called a meeting of the commanders of these regiments to implore them to try to convince their men to stay. He had not been able to move them, though more than a few of those now stood before him with heads lowered. Some had been in tears as they spoke of how many of their men had died in the last month, not in battle but of starvation, disease, the flux; of men screaming in agony as unclad feet froze and then had to be amputated.

  “My God, sir,” one of them had cried, voice breaking, “my own brother came with me to this fight, and do you know what he died of? He was found frozen to death, out on the picket line during the storm of three days ago. He was thrown into a pit with twenty-three others that died that night, sir. We buried him naked; the men cast lots for his blanket and rags.”

  There was nothing more he could do or say. The final gesture had been made. Without another word, he turned and started back to his headquarters. The staff, guards, and musicians fell in behind him, the instruments silent.

  He heard commands echoing and spared a glance back. The regiments were turning and began to march off…leaving Valley Forge behind.

  Those still destined to stay, at least for now, stood along the crest to watch. There was silence from them as well. No taunts were being uttered at the men leaving, and he sensed, if anything, envy rather than disdain. The three thousand leaving had fulfilled their honor as they saw it. Their enlistments were up; they were not deserting. If anything, their mood was that the country had deserted and abandoned them, and this was the only response now left to them. Gone was the spirit shared after Trenton and Princeton that the tide was turning and, by hanging on just a bit longer, they would make a final push, and the British would collapse and go home.

  Lafayette came up by his side, his youthful face forcing a smile to try to cheer him. He said nothing, looking away, fearful that the boy would see the tears in his eyes, his control about ready to break with the shame of it all. Shame and an ever-growing rage—he knew full well how this would be reported to Congress.

  Reaching Mrs. Hewes’s house, he dismounted without comment and walked inside, his staff not sure if they should follow. The way he closed the door behind him made it clear that, for now, he wished to be alone.

  Peter Wellsley, after stabling the general’s horse, went over to the campfire near the barn door, where the company rations were being cooked. A small, skinny suckling pig was turning on a spit, barely enough meat for everyone this day. The men waited eagerly as slices were cut away. The ritual was played out, with Sergeant Harris turning his back, the company cook calling out “And who shall have this?” and Harris replying by calling out a name, a fair way to distribute the food when rations were as meager as they were.

  Luck was with Peter; he got the jowls, ears, and tongue, which were slapped onto his tin plate. There was even a small barrel of hard cider, mixed with some water from the well. Sitting down inside the shelter of the barn, where the company was quartered, Harris came over to join him, cursing under his breath that when he called his own name the portion had been the feet of the pig, which of course were just roasted and not even pickled.

  Peter forced a smile. Harris could somehow sense by the looks of those gathered round when a less than tasty morsel was up for choosing and would then usually call his own name out.

  “You think for once you bastards would all grin and rub your stomachs to let me know when something worth eating was up for grabs,” Harris announced, as he picked up one of the feet and stared at it with disdain, but then chewed on it anyhow.

  Peter struggled with the idea for a moment, then finally made the offer of trading one of the ears for a foot, but Harris shook his head, as Peter knew he would. After a year and a half with this army, Peter knew a good sergeant was a rare find. He would have gladly agreed to the exchange even as he knew Harris would refuse. He had figured out that Harris had, without doubt, saved his life by dragging him along on the day they went to meet Mrs. Hewes, bringing him with the hope that the old woman would take p
ity on him.

  “The general shouldn’t have issued out rations to those runaways,” someone grumbled. “I heard they got fresh meat at parade this morning before they marched off.”

  There was a chorus of approval from the others, but Harris shook his head. “They’d of looted the countryside clean as they marched off,” the sergeant sighed. “Besides, they did their part—can’t blame them for leaving. At least give ’em a meal to send them on their way.”

  “How many you think will run tonight?” Peter asked.

  “Oh, the usual number.”

  “Anyone care to bet?” asked Justin Putnam, the company gambler. He could find almost anything to wager on, his latest venture being louse races, with each man nurturing a favorite on his body, plucking him off to put on a tin plate, and then betting which would be the first to scramble off.

  Putnam usually won with a big fat one that he boasted he kept warm and happy under his armpit. Peter had lost his own favorite at the hands of Mrs. Hewes, though others in the company had offered him replacements, which so far he had managed to avoid acquiring.

  “What are your bets, gentlemen?” Justin asked. “How many deserters with tomorrow morning’s report?”

  There were snorts of derision at first.

  “But before we start, my friends, what do we bet?” he asked.

  The debate went on for some minutes, the company at last settling on the winner getting a double portion of tomorrow’s ration.

  Justin pulled out a scrap of paper and jotted down initials and bets, casually mentioning that, since he had thought of the event and was the record keeper, he was entitled to a few bites of the chosen morsel, a request greeted with derisive taunts as to what he could go eat.

  Peter chose twenty-eight deserters, his bet met with gales of laughter that he was ever the optimist, Justin waiting to be the last to bet, capping the high number at 151, announcing that anything above that number and he automatically won.

  Harris, still worrying over one of the pig’s feet, looked up from the circle of men sitting on the barn floor, saw that an officer was coming into the barn, and called for the men to come to attention.