Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  Without…without…without…

  He sighed and yet forced himself to keep his good-natured smile as he rode past a column of infantry that was attempting to simply march by column of fours and properly wheel.

  He paused to watch for a moment, trying to conceal his dismay as the men floundered about. My God, that they had survived this long in and of itself both off the battlefield and on it was a miracle. He rode on and did not bother to pain himself by looking back as he heard an exasperated officer shouting orders that were met by grumbling, cursing, and even outright laughter.

  Tomorrow he would see if they still laughed!

  He caught sight of his modest dwelling, smoke pouring from the chimney.

  “I am hungry, my friends,” he announced, and he nudged his mount to a canter, the others following eagerly. This evening was special. He had offered a fete for the junior officers on the staffs of Washington and some others. It was an obvious political move, but already he had grown fond of the lads. With a bit of proper training, boys like Hamilton, Laurens, and others could be the match of any staff in Prussia. What they lacked in proper training they more than made up for in their youthful enthusiasm and—something that was indeed lacking in nearly all the armies of Europe—their passionate belief that transcended mere national pride, a belief in a revolutionary cause and devotion to an honest leader of that cause.

  When in Catherine’s service, he had seen such fire in some of the Polish and Cossack prisoners. They were fighting for a losing cause, and they knew it, and yet they fought on, believing in a free Poland and Ukraine. These Americans had that same fire—even more so, in a strange way, because it transcended mere national identity. Hamilton was the illegitimate son of an island planter who had come to this country to strike out on his own. Laurens, the son of a plantation owner who was now president of Congress, openly talked about his idea that, if they were to hold to the truth of their Declaration, then they must offer full freedom to all slaves and immediate emancipation to any who would take up arms and fight for that freedom. Lafayette, the child of French aristocracy, spoke of bringing back to his country the ideals of the Revolution, planting it on that soil and, if need be, fighting for the equality of all men.

  He was not yet sure if he himself could believe such things, but nevertheless, this was fertile human soil to work with and from which perhaps to shape an army of a new and different kind. One that would bear his stamp.

  They drew up to his modest dwelling and Vogel came out to meet him.

  “All is ready, sir,” Vogel announced, taking his horse.

  He sniffed the air.

  “Good God, what are you cooking in there?” he whispered.

  “Horse.”

  “Horse?”

  “It is one of the artillery horses with the battery over there.” Vogel motioned to where a two-gun section from New York was camped. “I learned they had a dead horse. So I traded your extra pair of dress shoes for twenty pounds of meat.”

  “Not my silver buckled shoes?” he gasped.

  “I took the buckles off and replaced them with the pewter buckles after polishing them to look like silver,” Vogel whispered.

  He thought about it for a moment.

  “Good man,” he sighed, patting him on the shoulder. “How dead was the horse?”

  “They found him dead this morning. No disease. Just starvation.”

  “I hope.”

  Vogel looked at him indignantly. The man was an old campaigner and knew an edible dead horse from one that needed to be burned or buried.

  “I got some of the liver, and mixed it in with some potatoes that were being issued to the troops.”

  “Can you feed all of these?”

  He pointed to the staff that had followed him, along with half a dozen other young officers who, having heard that “the German” was offering dinner, were now just standing conveniently nearby.

  Vogel shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’ll thin out the soup a bit before you bring them in.”

  Von Steuben stalled the gathering for a few minutes while Vogel dashed back inside, commenting on the beauty of the sunset, though as it approached the temperature was quickly dropping. It promised to be a cold night.

  The evening tattoo echoed from the general’s headquarters, picked up by drummers with the various brigades, the signal that evening supper, whatever it might be, was now to be served, guard details were to be changed, and the camp was to settle in for another cold night.

  “Gentlemen, it would be my pleasure to share supper with you,” he announced, looking back for a second through the open doorway and seeing Vogel waving him in after having poured a gallon or more of water into the soup pot.

  Acting as the gracious host, he stood by the door, as Hamilton, Laurens, various staff, and, to his delight, even Lafayette came riding up to join them. Cloaks and hats were laid out on his bed, and all retired to the kitchen, which was delightfully warm, almost stuffy. Several rough-hewn tables were set end to end, nearly filling the room, with split log benches to sit on, the men joking as to who would pick up a splinter and by camp tradition thus be entitled to a free drink before the others.

  A various assortment of plates, some pewter, others china, in various states from fine to badly cracked and chipped, were set out. Vogel, with the help of a couple of servants from Lafayette’s staff, maneuvered the kettle of soup to the center of the table and then, acting as if he was at a state dinner, ladled out bowls full of potato soup leavened with horse bones and liver. There were good-natured jokes that here was a meal fit for a French king, since all believed that as the English adhered to their kidney pies and plum duffs, the French preferred anything made of horse.

  Next came a platter covered with blackened and curled slabs of horse meat and roasted potatoes. It was at this point that von Steuben stood and hurled a good-natured round of German, English, and French invective at Vogel: that he was holding back and keeping a treasure for himself. His servant hurried into the bedroom and came out with a heavy jug filled with the ubiquitous corn liquor of the Continentals. That had cost him two pounds of precious salt and a silk vest in trade with a Pennsylvania militia sergeant, but for this night it was worth it.

  This was greeted with a round of cheers as Vogel poured out a gill for each of the men, von Steuben watching with a smile even though he inwardly sighed. There would be precious little reserve left, especially if the rules of hospitality required that he offer a second round.

  There was no dessert to offer, nor coffee other than the usual chickory blend, and of course tea for such an occasion was not a proper political statement. An officer drinking tea, especially a foreign one, would be viewed as suspect for not understanding one of the legendary causes of this war, with many a man pledging he would not drink tea again until victory was achieved and it could be purchased freely, without a British tax, and then only from the Dutch.

  With the gill of corn liquor, the usual toasts were now offered to His Excellency the General, to the Declaration, to confusion to the British king, and even one for the horse who was now their dinner, having died in service to his country. To his dismay, after the last toast more than a few of the young officers slammed their mugs down emphatically, a polite gesture that it was time for a refill. Vogel looked over at him stricken. He merely nodded and smiled, and his servant made another round, carefully doling out what was left of the jug.

  Lafayette broke the embarrassing moment by turning to one of his servants helping Vogel. He whispered an order and the man dashed out. Minutes later he returned bearing two bottles of brandy and was greeted with a rousing cheer.

  Von Steuben caught Lafayette’s eye and ever so subtly nodded a thanks. The young Frenchman grinned at him, as if silently saying that he understood the predicament, and at that moment von Steuben’s love for this man redoubled. Chances were that in the midst of this abject poverty, he, as a proper French noble, quietly managed to insure that his own larder was well taken care
of, and yet chances were that perhaps these two bottles of brandy were the last of it, for the blockade by the Royal Navy was ever tightening.

  Another round of toasts now resounded to good King Louis XVI, to Frederick, king of Prussia, and even to Catherine, though for propriety’s sake von Steuben was glad that none of the several Polish volunteers serving with this army were present, for such a toast would have prompted something of a problem, and just maybe a fight.

  As the table was cleared of the empty platter of horse meat and the kettle of soup, he felt it was time at last to turn to business.

  Everyone stood to stretch, some going outside to relieve themselves, and he went into his small bedroom, drew out the papers he had been working on, and returned to the kitchen. Vogel had managed to snatch one of the bottles of brandy, half-empty, and by watering it down a bit and mixing in some nutmeg and other spices was now heating it to serve as an after-dinner cordial.

  Nearly all the young officers returned, though a few begged off, obviously intent on the hope that they might be able to scrounge up some additional food at another headquarters, or simply because the flux was upon them and dinner had not set all that well. But the key individuals he sought were still with him, Hamilton, Laurens, Lafayette, and several of the aides for Greene, Wayne, and Stirling.

  He opened up his leather case, drew out a sheaf of papers, and looked over at the ever-present Du Ponceau, who, though a bit into his cups, was still ready to serve as interpreter.

  “Gentlemen, I have been in this camp more than a week and have learned much,” he began, “and I thank you for the kindness and friendship you have shown me.”

  There were nods of approval and indeed he could see that these men really had taken him to heart. He had criticized what he saw when his sense of duty had required it but had always done so with the proper amount of praise for the obstacles so far overcome. The balance of praise and criticism had won them over. He had learned as a young company officer many years earlier that some officers could only lead by the flogging cane across the back. Such officers never rose to superior rank. Praise mixed with discipline and criticism when required worked far better.

  “I wish to be of service and have cast about for how best to do that,” he continued.

  Hamilton leaned over to look at them and, taking a sip of the cordial set before him by Vogel, finally shook his head and forced a smile.

  “I can imagine whatever it is you are writing, sir, is indeed genius, as befitting a lieutenant general of Frederick, but I must confess my ignorance, sir. I cannot read German.”

  When translated, there was a round of laughter. “Perhaps I should have written it in Russian,” von Steuben offered with a smile, and the others laughed.

  Lafayette studied one of the sheets intently.

  “This looks like a manual of drill for the battalion,” he said. “This sheet is deployment from column of companies to line of battle.”

  “Precisely,” von Steuben replied. “Very good, General.”

  Lafayette beamed like a schoolboy, which in age he almost was. “I am proposing a manual of drill for the entire army. It is how I was trained. It is why Frederick prevailed on so many battlefields in spite of the odds. It is, I must say with all humbleness, the issue that should be foremost at hand with this army.”

  The papers were picked up by the others and handed back and forth. He had, in fact, been working on it even while in transit from Boston to York. There were dozens of pages of sketches of unit formations, from a single company up to brigades and divisions, encamped, on the march, and, most important, maneuvering from column on the road into battle formations.

  Some nodded in eager agreement; others sat polite but silent.

  He looked around the room, carefully scanning responses.

  “Colonel Hamilton, pray, sir, what is your reaction?”

  “I can’t read German.” But he said so with a smile and not as rejection.

  “Nor I English,” von Steuben replied in English.

  “Sir. We have tried to drill our army in the manner of the British. It has been an abysmal failure.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Some argue that we do not need to do so. That the rigid discipline of the British line marching in tight formation is not befitting the nature of free men who would better fight as individuals.”

  “And your personal opinion?” von Steuben offered.

  Hamilton smiled.

  “I think it is known already, sir.”

  “Pray, go on, though.”

  “I was with the army at New York and watched them break and run. I have been in every battle since. When we catch them by surprise, as we did at Trenton and Princeton, the valor of our men will indeed prevail. We break them before they can organize and form ranks. But in a stand-up fight, such as at Brooklyn or Brandywine, we will lose every time.”

  “Then we avoid such fights,” a young officer, an aide to Wayne, offered, his voice edged with hardness. “Avoid such fights the way we did at Saratoga, draw them out beyond their supplies, and cut them off. They have yet to dare to march out here to meet us, and I say, if need be, we just keep pulling back, extending them out, then cutting them off from behind until they give up.”

  Von Steuben looked around the room and saw several nods of agreement.

  “This,” and the young man pointed to the sheaf of papers, “this looks like the British way of fighting, and I must ask: Why?”

  “Why do we keep losing?” Hamilton replied coolly.

  “Because…” The young man trailed off into silence.

  “And if I hear but one word against His Excellency,” and now it was Laurens who spoke, “I will take that as a personal insult, sir.”

  “I did not even remotely mean to imply that,” the young man replied quickly. “I would follow him to hell as surely as you would, sir.”

  Von Steuben extended his hands in a calming gesture.

  “My friends, we are all on the same side here,” he offered.

  There was silence for a moment.

  “What are you proposing, sir?” Hamilton asked.

  “A new model of drill for this army,” von Steuben replied.

  “How so?”

  “It is said that it takes three years to make a proper soldier.”

  “Rare that a man stays in the ranks for more than a year,” Laurens replied sadly. “Many are with us for only ninety days, then go back home until next year.”

  “I understand that,” von Steuben replied, “and have thought on it long and hard before I arrived here.”

  “Are you proposing a long-service standing army?” Laurens replied quickly. Von Steuben smiled. He sensed already that this young man was solidly behind General Washington, who was calling for just such a measure, against the revolutionaries such as Gates, and even men such as the Adamses, who by instinct mistrusted a standing army and instead called for swarms of militia.

  “I will leave policy to those who make policy,” he replied with a smile. “I hope my task shall be to form what is provided for the time it is provided into an army that can drive the English and, yes, my German cousins from these shores.”

  “Hear, hear!” Hamilton offered, raising his glass and finishing the cordial. With a sigh, Vogel offered a few precious ounces as a refill.

  “What I am proposing is a model of drill for the army that I pray, within ninety days, can transform it into a force that can meet the British in an open-field fight and then hold that field, in fact drive them from it.”

  The young officer with Wayne sat back, shaking his head. Hamilton and Laurens smiled, and the others just sat silent, staring at von Steuben. He wondered if they thought he was mad.

  “Gentlemen, we must agree on this. In an open-field battle, in terrain such as is found along all the coastal plains, from Savannah to Boston, the British, and I must announce with regret my former comrades from Germany, reign supreme. In a land of gently rolling hills, of rich open farmland sprinkled with woodlo
ts, they will always hold the field.

  “In a land of what passes for good roads”—he paused, not wishing to denigrate what these men called roads but which he could only define as mud tracks—“there is currently no force on this side of the Atlantic that can beat them.”

  “Get them into the forests of upstate New York, or the way Braddock went wandering off toward Pittsburgh, and it is a different story, though,” Wayne’s young loyalist retorted.

  “And, yes, my friend, I will readily agree with you,” von Steuben replied. “But the war will not be won at Saratoga, Pittsburgh, or some other wilderness outpost. It will be won in front of Philadelphia, New York, Charleston, or in the tidewater of Virginia. It will finally be won by what His Excellency calls a Continental Line, of disciplined infantry, backed with artillery, horse-mounted troopers and dragoons, and well-supported logistics. But most of all by disciplined infantry. Infantry that can stand and fight the British to a standstill and then drive our opponents from the field.”

  He was now warming to his subject, and as he spoke he slapped the table with his hand.

  “Fabian strategy will no longer work in this war,” he continued. “Who was Fabian?” Wayne’s staffer asked.

  Lafayette interjected, “He was a Roman leader who believed Hannibal could only be defeated through a long war of attrition while avoiding pitched battles until the Carthaginians were worn down.”

  “It worked for him, didn’t it?” came the reply.

  “Gentlemen,” von Steuben interjected, fearing that—so typical of these Americans—a heated debate was about to unfold, “putting aside two-thousand-year-old Romans, who in fact built a new model army in Spain under Scipio, let’s focus on defeating today’s British. What I believe is needed is a new model army. Like those which William of Orange, Cromwell of the English, or Gustavus Adolphus of the Swedes developed in the last century.”

  Lafayette nodded enthusiastically, but von Steuben saw he was losing the others around the table with his references to the great generals of the past.