“And that is?”
“I have been on both continents, you have not.”
“So I am a provincial?” Allen let slip.
André laughed softly and shook his head, putting a reassuring hand on Allen’s shoulder.
“You Americans and your pride. No insult intended.”
“Nor taken,” Elizabeth interjected, and André offered her a courteous nod.
“You Americans take such pride in your heartiness, in this frontier of yours, which you claim shapes men such as Washington, Wayne, and Morgan. I will admit that, man for man, one of your yeomen, matched against some poor devil swept up from the streets of London or Edinburgh and pressed into a uniform because there is no alternative left…well, there indeed is a match. But what can be found in our army and not the rebels’ is discipline.”
He warmed to his subject, and Allen noticed that some of those strolling by slowed, taking in André’s heated words, more than a few of them officers out with their ladies, or what they attempted to pass off as ladies, by their side this sunny afternoon.
“I will not deny the courage of the rebels, at least at Germantown, or the year before at Trenton and Princeton. But in the moment of crisis, they lack discipline. They lack officers of character and breeding in whom they can trust. The rebels, an order is given and, good God above, the privates are ready to form a committee to debate it even as the cannonballs fly about their ears!”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head.
“Our men can march fifteen miles in a day with eighty pounds on their backs, knowing that if they drop out there will be a damn good flogging unless they show a pass. The rebels, we’ve seen how they march, the roadside littered with cast-off equipment, every woodlot filled with their deserters running off. They are drunk when they should be sober and, by God, sober when they do have a right on occasion to be drunk as any soldier would be.
“Our army and the Hessians have been drilled on the battlefields of Europe. More than a few of them veterans of the Seven Years. And, yes, more than a few of them veterans of the last war here. Thus they know the ways of the wilderness and how to fight in it when need be. I daresay if poor Johnny had our brigade of light infantry with him to sweep ahead of his main body as he marched from Lake George to Saratoga, the damn newspapers in London would be printing a different story today.”
André had touched on the pride of the brigade he now served with, and Allen could not help but nod in agreement. In his heart, though, he suspected that in the end they would have gone into captivity as well. A brigade of light infantry, no matter how brilliantly trained for fighting in rough terrain and wilderness, would collapse if cut off from rations, ammunition, and resupply, as Burgoyne’s men were.
“Our men can fire four volleys a minute and sweep the field before them, even if they are hollow-chested consumptives from the streets of London. The rabble? After the first volley, all they know how to do is run when they see the solid red lines of infantry advancing toward them with bayonets lowered.”
He finished with a flourish. A number of those passing by, slowing, heard his statement and offered polite applause. A few cried out, “Hear, hear! Well said, Captain!” and then moved on.
André, the touch of the showman in him, realizing he had gathered an audience, smiled and nodded in reply.
Allen stood silent. The mention of bayonets conjured the memory of Paoli, the wounded on the ground screaming for mercy. This army dismissed it, even held an inquiry, exonerated Grey, and praised him. But the rebels? He could imagine that the memory of it still seethed and that there might someday soon be a terrible reckoning, especially if Wayne and his men ever received a chance to square off against Grey and the light infantry in an even match.
André looked straight at him and shook his head.
“You disagree.”
“I wish for nothing more than a final victory of our arms and an end to this bloody war.”
“But you do disagree?”
“Suppose this winter they learn discipline.”
“What?”
“Discipline, sir. What are they doing up there at Valley Forge?”
“Starving and freezing, though maybe today they are sitting outside their huts, and while we enjoy this afternoon promenade they are picking lice out of their shirts and beards.”
He looked to the two ladies and nodded. “Forgive me for such coarse references,” he said with a smile.
“But suppose they do learn discipline this winter?” Allen pressed. “Maybe not matching us volley for volley, because that takes years of training, but discipline enough to hold their lines, take casualties, maneuver, and keep on fighting. God help us if they do master that.”
“Then it shall be a most interesting fight come spring,” André replied, still smiling.
“No insult intended to any of you,” André sighed. “I am carried away by the moment. Come, my friends, let us return to Dr. Franklin’s house and see what this latest work by Mozart sounds like on his amazing instrument.”
André led the way, turning back southward along the dockside. They passed the captured sloop with its equipment. So desperately needed by the rebels now, it would just sit in a warehouse, for the army was bloated with such supplies. They pressed around the edge of the crowd that was still gathered around the packet ship, officers and even some enlisted men lined up, calling out their names and regiments, hoping for a cherished letter or package from across the wide sea. André and Peggy were a bit ahead by now, Elizabeth falling in by Allen’s side.
He could see she was looking around warily, and then relaxed once clear of the crowd.
“Guess your father gave up on you and went home,” he offered.
She laughed softly.
“Peggy’s family is all but throwing her at the good captain, but my parents…,” and she sighed, smiling but shaking her head.
“I will vouch for your safety and honor,” he offered.
“Precisely the point, Allen van Dorn.”
“In other words?”
“You know as well as I do how my parents stand.”
“In other words, I’m just a provincial, not a proper officer?”
She came closer to his side and to his amazement slipped her hand under his arm.
“Precisely, good sir.”
He looked at her and saw the blush coming to her cheeks.
Dare he hope?
“Why did you not call upon me? Or at least write?” she asked in the most forthright manner.
Caught off-guard, he could only stammer, “I thought you would…” and his voice trailed off.
“May I ask a question?”
“Anything.”
She hesitated, looking over her shoulder and to either side.
“Why are you in that uniform?”
“Miss?”
“You heard me.”
“I think it is obvious, isn’t it?” he finally offered, his voice barely a whisper.
“I know you well enough to know you are not a turncoat. That you believe in what you are doing. But still, Allen, I was amazed when I met you at the party last month, though I did hear of your capture and release.”
“So you are a rebel?” he whispered.
“Of course I am.”
“And Miss Shippen?”
She gave a snort of disdain. “Loyalist if the uniforms in town are red, patriot if they are blue or homespun.”
He could hear the cool dislike in her voice.
“You seem friendly enough with Captain André.”
She laughed softly.
“Allen, you really are a provincial. A lady can be charmed by a true gentleman regardless of uniform, but that does not mean she will set her cap for him. He is a noble soul and I wish he was on our side.”
“Rather than mine?”
“Yes, rather than yours.”
“And your feelings about my being in this uniform?”
“Oh, Allen, didn’t you hear me? I can be charmed by a
gentleman regardless of uniform. Though in your case I just might set my cap for you.”
It felt as if his heart would stop. She sensed his reaction and laughed softly. “And, no, I am not some flirt such as Miss Shippen. I speak my mind as I see things.”
“Why me?” he blurted out.
“Maybe I like Mozart,” she said, raising her voice slightly, for they were approaching the front door of Franklin’s home, a servant holding it open. André, hearing her, looked back and smiled.
She drew closer. “My parents at times are out of town visiting my mother’s family. I will send word when they are. My servant is African. His name is David, and he can be trusted.”
He stammered, unable to reply.
They were at the door. Some of the windows were open in the warm air. It was time for tea, and there was an informal gathering within. All talked of the latest news from London and the prospect of open war with France. Boasts were offered that such a prospect would surely bring promotions to all of them by the time the war was finished.
André guided them into Franklin’s study, hurriedly going over to the harmonica. Several other officers and their companions were in the room. André announced that there was to be a concert. Two of the couples withdrew, but one of them stayed, a captain who sniffed that surely they were not going to crank up such a machine made by a damn rebel.
A sidelong glance from André stilled the protest. A comment in French and the captain stiffened, glared at André, and withdrew.
“What did you say?” Allen asked.
“Oh yes, forgot. You know German, not French. Rude of me.”
“What did you say to him?” Peggy asked.
“Just being rude, that’s all,” he laughed, and opening the package he set the composition on the stand by the side of the harmonica, eagerly motioning for Allen to sit down.
He looked at the sheets of music. At least thirty pages or more. Good heavens, this was not some simple piece for a harpsichord, it was the length of a concerto. Knowing André, the captain would be boasting about a concert for next weekend. There was many a sleepless night ahead.
He began to work the pedals, the drive belt turning the shaft upon which were mounted the crystal goblets, each one marked with a tracing of colored ink: yellow for C, dark yellow for C-sharp, light blue for G, and so on up the scale.
Unfortunately, the sheet music before him was not marked with colored inks. He would have to talk with André, to at least dot each note with the matching color on the harmonica if there was any hope of him mastering this piece in less than a week.
He dipped his fingertips into the bowl of chalk, studied the first few measures for a moment, took a deep breath, extended his hands, and lightly touched the spinning orbs of crystal.
He tried only six fingers. The second and third finger of his left hand were off by half a note, and he adjusted. Another deep breath, the next notes, another breath—far too long, of course, for Mozart opened this piece with his usual vigor. He slowly worked through the first few measures, tried a second time, and then nodded.
“Here goes,” he whispered, and at half-time at best, he managed the first line.
It was wonderful, absolutely wonderful. All else of this world was forgotten as Franklin’s machine turned notations of ink on paper and his feeble attempt to play them into a sweet, melodious blend of heavenly chords.
All was forgotten, the war, what they had just spoken of, even, for a moment, the presence of Elizabeth and her bold offer of a rendezvous.
“What is that god-awful wailing, I say?”
Startled, Allen stopped and looked up. The captain that André had shooed off was standing out in the hallway, several others gathered around him, shaking their heads.
André made no pretense now. He strode to the door and without comment slammed it shut, then turned back, smiling.
“Let’s forget about the rest of the world this afternoon, my friends. Pray, sir, please continue!”
Allen could see genuine excitement, even affection in André’s eyes, and indeed, all was forgotten for the moment as he turned back to the instrument, spindle whirling, glass orbs mounted on it a blur, casting rainbow patterns on the wall from the sunlight streaming in from the west-facing windows. He noticed something he had never taken in before, that this instrument was like one of Newton’s prisms, turning light into rainbows.
He let his fingers brush against the turning orbs, and this time played the first line as Mozart had intended it. And yet, even as he played, all else forgotten for the moment, he could not help but notice Elizabeth’s hand resting on his shoulder, squeezing it tight. He looked up at her to smile and noticed, to his astonishment and delight, that there were tears in her eyes as she gazed at him; and it seemed to him that, in that moment, she saw not a merchant’s son and soldier but his very soul.
Chapter Eleven
Valley Forge
February 28, 1778
He had started the morning ride from near Morgantown, a pleasant region of rolling hills and what had once been prosperous farms, obviously tended by Germans, as witnessed by their neatness and apparent wealth. This new country did indeed hold promise, if they could ever win their independence. The land was rich. Here a peasant could own a hundred acres if he had the strength to clear it, and in a generation his sons could live like gentry if they worked hard enough and were frugal. The war, however, had reached this far westward. The barnyards looked empty, houses were shuttered, the few farmers about watching warily as his party rode past. No young men were in the fields, and the muddy lane that passed for a road was devoid of any traffic.
The day had turned warm—the snow on south-facing slopes, fallen several days ago, had melted away by midday; the ground was heavy with moisture. The road was barely passable due to the mud, and at times they had to turn off to trot across open fields. Turning a bend in the road, he was pleasantly surprised to be confronted by outpost riders, concealed within a woodlot that the road passed through. A barrier, concealed inside the woodlot, was across the road, and as he drew closer to the outpost a couple of rough-looking riflemen came out of the woods behind them, looking warily at this cavalcade of finely dressed officers in the uniforms of France and Prussia. Both of the sentries were dressed in their traditional dark brown hunting frocks, broad-brimmed hats, and ankle-length trousers, moving silently as if one with the woods.
The attitude of the young officer manning the barrier changed as soon as L’Enfant presented their papers, informing him that they were from York, with orders to report to His Excellency General George Washington.
The young Pierre L’Enfant had been loitering at York for weeks, and it was Dr. Rush who suggested he join the baron’s staff. He seemed pleasant enough, spoke of his training as an architect whenever the opportunity presented itself…and von Steuben wondered if he was in fact a spy for Gates.
The fact that von Steuben had even made it here was something of a miracle. For several days it appeared that it was the intent of Gates and his War Board to keep him reined in tight. Only the assurances of his loyalty to Congress—and also the more pragmatic point that, if assigned to at least look around Washington’s camp, pay vouchers for staff and his own expenses would come from Washington’s purse rather than Congress—had helped sway the argument.
Day after day, adventure seekers had arrived at York, some with real credentials, others with crackpot schemes such as making fleets of ships that could sail underwater to run the blockade. The total swamped Congress. All of them had to be fed, housed, entertained until the wheat could be separated from the tons of chaff. Thus pushing the baron and his half-dozen retainers out the door had finally resonated with Rush and then Gates.
“Remember, sir,” Gates had insisted. “Your commission comes from here, your loyalty is here. I want a harsh and direct evaluation of the deficiencies that you see in Valley Forge and recommendations to Major General Conway as to their remedy.”
He had of course agreed…anything to g
et out of the bedbug-infested inn they had quartered him in.
The day’s ride had been pleasant, spirits were high with his lads, and now it seemed the adventure would truly begin.
“We’ve been expecting you, gentlemen!” one of the sentries announced, and he passed the word to a dispatch rider, who mounted and galloped off eastward, kicking up a spray of mud. The officer had obviously been ordered to delay them a bit, so von Steuben dismounted, calling his dog to heel. Azor was curiously sniffing the nervous young man. Von Steuben took him off into the woods so that he could relieve himself.
He returned to find the dozen enlisted men around the officer looking at him a bit wide-eyed, several vaguely offering salutes. He merely smiled in return, muttering “Good day, good day,” in English, and mounted.
“And these are soldiers?” L’Enfant asked in French.
“Let’s not judge yet,” von Steuben offered, though his impression was the same. Only a few were clean-shaven. Even in the czarina’s army, men were expect to shave twice a week—beards were viewed as a sign of slovenliness, fit maybe for a Cossack or a Turk but not a proper soldier. Other than the officer, who had an epaulette on one shoulder and wore what appeared to have been, at one time, a uniform of brown with red facings, the rest were dressed in assorted castoffs, or just the ubiquitous brown or tan hunting frock. Several were barefoot. Only a couple wore what could be considered proper boots…and all of them stank like an open latrine. He did note that the musketmen shouldered weapons that were well tended, polished and with good flints. The riflemen toted long-barreled weapons, nearly as long as their owners were tall, and even on this mild day the locks were covered with oiled cloth to protect them from the damp.
They might be filthy and smell filthy, but they looked lean and tough, especially the riflemen, and he would think twice about challenging them to a fight in the woods that were their element. All reports indicated they were steady when combat was in backcountry and wooded terrain. But an open-field volley match with the British and Hessian line regiments supported by artillery, cavalry, and light infantry?
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