He reached out across the table and gathered back the scattering of papers, silently cursing himself for having forgotten to number each page. It would take a while to sort them out. He went through the papers for a moment, fearful that he might be losing his audience, but they remained patiently focused on his next words, while Vogel poured out the last few precious drops of the watered-down cordial.
He finally held several sheets up.
“This is where I propose we”—he hesitated, fumbling for the right word, while looking at Du Ponceau—“where all of us should start.
“It is a school of infantry for but one company of men.”
He pointed to the sketches on the sheet. Though he prided himself on at least having a passing ability with watercolors, sketches on cheap foolscap with a quill pen were not his forte.
“I propose starting with a hundred men, one company in strength. The men are to be picked from every regiment with the army. And please, gentlemen, I am a soldier and I know how when a call is given for a levee of several men from each regiment, the tendency is to pick out those that an officer wishes to get rid of, the malcontents, slackers, and cowards.
“That is why I ask you now for your help.”
He fixed each man in turn with his gaze as if making a personal appeal.
“I want the best of each regiment. Enlisted men only of proven character and leadership. I beg you, my friends, if this plan is to work, I need your help. For General Washington to have an army worthy of his leadership, I need your help.”
Again the look of appeal, and he saw nods from nearly all, including the man with Wayne who had so openly questioned him.
“I will then personally drill this company in a manner which I deem appropriate for your army.”
“And that manner is?” Hamilton asked.
“I shoot the first man who disobeys.”
There was a moment of stunned silence as Du Ponceau translated. He remained stone-faced for long seconds, then broke out laughing at their looks of disbelief.
The tension in the room broke, and he knew he was winning them over. A well-placed joke at the right moment always worked with soldiers.
“I will start with the most basic of basics. How to stand at attention, how to dress a line, how to salute, how to break ranks and then in an instant reform ranks with one sharp command.”
“Good luck on that,” Laurens sighed. “It is almost a matter of pride that the men take their own time.”
“Then we show them reasons not to.”
“How, flog them the way the British do?” the officer with Wayne asked.
“No,” and his reply was a bit heated, “we give them pride in a task well done. Americans cannot be driven and beaten into obedience, but I believe they can be reasoned with and educated into a system that will help them defeat their enemies.”
There were nods around the table, and he could not help but be pleased with himself.
After thirty years, he knew well the workings of an army. It was one thing to present a plan to the general in command. It was another game altogether to first go to the junior officers, to win their confidence over a good meal, or at least what would pass for a good meal, to be as liberal as possible with spirits, and then appeal to them as brothers in arms.
“I will personally drill the men,” and then he quickly added, “with your help, of course.”
That was part of the plan as well. If Lafayette, Laurens, Hamilton, and others were there and joined in, it would encourage other officers to observe and to participate as well.
“I will drill them first as individual soldiers, starting with the most basic of things. Once I am satisfied, I am certain they will feel a sense of pride in their bearing and deportment.
“Then to the next step, which is to drill them as a company. We will start with the simplest of maneuvers, to march in column of fours.”
“They already know that,” Laurens offered.
“Yes, they do, but perhaps not as we would wish to see it done,” he replied with a grin. “There should be a precise measure to their step, exactly twenty-eight inches.”
Laurens looked at him, a bit confused.
“Trust me, good sir, it goes all the way back to the Romans. First you must train your men to an exact step, all the same: left, right, left, right…” As he spoke, he beat out a tattoo on the table.
“And it must be exactly seventy-five steps a minute for normal march. That is regular step. Then to quick time, double-quick, and so on.”
“Why?” one of them asked.
“Ah, please bear with me, my friend.”
The room was silent now.
“Marching in column of fours is easy; I plan that it can be mastered in half a day at most. March at standard pace will be a bit harder but they will learn, encouraged by you and others.”
He stood up, moved to the side of the room, and began to march in the standard measured step, counting off the time as he did so, marching the twenty-foot length of the room, turning about, marching back, and gradually doing it in an increasingly exaggerated manner so that the others began to laugh.
“See, even half drunk I can do it!” he exclaimed.
He sat back down.
“Vogel, more brandy!” he announced.
His servant looked at him with an absolutely stricken expression.
There was a pause and then Lafayette, to the cheers of the others, motioned for his servant, who ran off yet again, Lafayette making a most French gesture of exaggerated despair. The men broke into conversation, and minutes later the servant returned with two more bottles and was greeted with cheers.
“My brothers, truly this is the last of it,” Lafayette exclaimed, “but I can think of no better friends to share it with and no better time to drink to our victory over tyranny.”
The two bottles of brandy were uncorked and there was no pretense of watering it down as they were passed around the table, each man receiving a glass full.
Von Steuben nodded his thanks to his newfound friend. It was obvious that Lafayette knew the subtlety of the game von Steuben was playing and was fully part of it.
“Now, as I was saying,” he continued, first holding up his glass to Lafayette and offering a nod of thanks for the last of his brandy, the others joining in. “Once our good men have mastered the proper march and pace, we then deploy to that most difficult of formation, the line of battle.”
There were nods of agreement now, and no protests.
“It shall be two ranks deep.”
“Two ranks?” Lafayette queried. “Every army of Europe deploys into three ranks to provide maximum firepower.”
“I have pondered long on that, my friend,” von Steuben replied. “There are a number of reasons why I suggest two rather than three. Deploying from column of fours to files of two is easier, for one thing; each file of four on the march breaks into two files for the line of battle. Second, it will extend our line farther, which in an even match will overlap their flanks. That will allow us to bring more fire to bear on them. It is also easier to train men for in the time allotted to us.”
He looked around the room. The tactical nuances of a line of three versus two were lost on many. But this was indeed something he had pondered for a long time. It made the line weaker, to be certain, but, given the limited time to train these men, it did make for an easier formation to maneuver in battle, and no one now objected. On a volley line, a file three ranks deep required a lot more training when it came to actually firing volleys, or firing by line, than did a battle line only two ranks deep. Without proper, extensive training, many would be the man in the first rank shot in the back of the head by a nervous soldier in the third rank, a guaranteed destroyer of morale. There would be time enough later to explain these finer details.
“Once they have mastered marching and holding their formation, we will then graduate to learning how to wheel, to change front, to go from line to square against cavalry, how to charge at the double-quick time an
d hold formation.”
“All of that in how long?” Hamilton asked.
“I propose that within a month our model company will have mastered all such things. Beyond that, as we conclude the month of training, they will do it in simulation of actual battle, with officers suddenly being taken from them, sergeants, even corporals, then having to take command because of battle losses. Every private will learn the role of a corporal, a corporal a sergeant, and so on up the line of command.”
“A month?” Lafayette asked, and even he had a note of doubt in his voice.
Von Steuben forced a smile.
“Do we have any alternative? It is already March. If the weather is good, the campaign season might start as early as May.”
And inwardly he prayed it would rain and snow until June.
Lafayette did not reply. “Plus, I know the standard is to expect the men to fire no more than two rounds a minute. I propose that this model company be trained to three rounds a minute.”
Now there was a murmur of discord again.
“It can be done,” he said quickly. “I have seen the most ignorant flat-footed Rhinelander peasant, who never touched a gun in his life, be trained to three rounds a minute in a month’s time. Surely Americans, who it is said come from their mother’s wombs gun in hand, can do the same?”
Again there was a round of laughter and the protests died.
“Once our model company is properly trained they will return to their regiments, all of them bearing the reward and the rank of sergeant.”
He looked around the room and all saw his point. The promotion and with it the extra pay, even if it was but five dollars a month Continental, would be incentive for most, if not all, of the recruits to endure the endless drill.
“Then, in turn, these new sergeants will drill each of their regiments as they were drilled. It will become a competition, and you Americans certainly love a good competition—”
He smiled.
“—as I learned in more than one game of cards and chance while trying to make my way here.” And though he did not admit that he had won most of the card games he played, his comment was greeted with laughter.
“If we can succeed, then a month hence a grand review would be held. I would pray that perhaps His Excellency the General would preside, with special honors and awards to those regiments that excel in the new model of drill I propose.”
There were nods of ready agreement.
“Once that is mastered, regiments would then master the higher arts of maneuver by brigades in mass formations.”
“You do make it sound easy,” Laurens said. “But in this army some regiments are of but forty men, others of four hundred. Organization as you propose and which I think I see in your sketches would mean a radical reorganization of the entire army and its command structure.”
“Perhaps regiments could be combined to form the proper regulation strength, which I would propose as at least two hundred men per regiment. The strongest regiment holds its name and the others form under its flag.”
His suggestion was met with a shaking of heads and even outright laughter from every native-born officer present.
“Oh, I could just see McDonald from South Carolina and his precious command of thirty-eight men being told to relinquish his precious rank of colonel,” Laurens announced, and the others laughed in agreement.
Von Steuben sensed this was definitely a losing fight for now and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“We can worry about that later. But for now, do I have your support?”
The room fell silent and finally there were nods of approval and muttered, “I’m with you, sir,” and “Aye, it’s about time.”
“Perhaps it was impolite of me to share it with you gentlemen first, rather than going straight to His Excellency, but enthusiasm got the better of me,” he announced.
It was little short of a bold-faced lie. He had already mentioned his scheme to General Washington, who had suggested this exact maneuver, since he was most certainly treading on the territory of every regimental commander in the army. Winning the junior officers over was crucial, and though an order from the top down would have won their required respect, it would not have necessarily won their support.
“Fine, then. I shall submit this report in the morning to the general, and I pray, gentlemen, that I shall see you shortly upon the drill field.”
Alexander Hamilton, who was in on the scheme, stood up, signaling that the dinner and conversation were at an end.
“General von Steuben, I think you are taking the necessary steps we have all been praying for,” he announced, and the others joined in with their congratulations.
Von Steuben went to the door, and as each of the young officers departed, he warmly shook their hands while Vogel fetched their hats and capes. The weather outside was turning far colder, wind backing around and carrying with it the scent of a storm, perhaps snow by morning.
Finally, only Lafayette and Hamilton remained. A subtle gesture on his part had conveyed to them that he wished them to linger for a few more minutes.
He turned to Lafayette and offered a bow.
“Your sacrifice of brandy, sir—I hope someday to redeem it.”
Lafayette smiled.
“To a worthy cause, though heaven knows when my family shall be able to smuggle another case through. Let us pray it is soon.”
Von Steuben looked at the two, took a deep breath, and then finally delved into what he had been dreading for months but knew had to be faced.
“Sir, you addressed me as General,” he finally said, looking at Hamilton.
Hamilton’s response was polite but obviously a bit confused.
“Well, sir, that is the rank you did hold under Frederick the Great.”
“Well, sir, how shall I venture this?” he replied, now nervous.
“There is a concern?” Lafayette offered.
“And that is?” Hamilton offered.
He cleared his throat.
“General might not be the exact term applied to me when I served with Frederick.”
The two were silent as they gazed at him. “Well, you see…,” and his voice trailed off.
He had deliberately let Laurens, now so enthusiastic a follower, leave the gathering before venturing this delicate point. He had played the game well enough with Gates, the buffoon, and ever since arrival on this shore, but sooner or later, rumors of the truth would dog him. He had never been a general; he had served on the General Staff in Berlin for only the briefest of times before being sent off; even his title of baron was a purchased one by his grandfather. His service with Catherine had come about solely because he had been a prisoner of war, and at war’s end, when released, had briefly served her addled husband the Czar Paul. After she had murdered Paul, she had found it convenient to employ an unemployable German officer to try to whip her army into shape.
He knew that sooner or later the rumors would follow him across the ocean. He had debated it ever since arriving in Boston, where, to his surprise, the American agents in France, Deane and Franklin, had inflated his resume to the highest of ranks. In the boiling pot of American politics, sooner or later the rumors and charges would catch up. In just the last week he had come to respect Washington more than any officer he had ever served. If von Steuben were attacked after given a place of confidence, it would be an embarrassment to Washington and could only be answered in turn by a single action, resignation on his part.
Best to venture at least some of it now and then hope for the best.
“Your rank?” Hamilton ventured. He looked at him hopefully.
“I think, sir, no slight upon their honor, sir, but I daresay that in their enthusiasm for our cause, certain, how shall I say, exaggerations have been made on my behalf by your American agents in Europe before I took ship to this shore.”
Hamilton did not reply; Lafayette stepped closer, looking straight into his eyes.
“Are you saying, sir, that
your commissioning papers with the Prussian and Russian armies might be not as they first seem?”
He did not reply.
“Nor your rank of nobility?”
Again he did not reply.
Lafayette remained silent and then threw back his head and laughed.
“I am a marquis. But where else in this world at the age of nineteen can I be a general?”
Hamilton, who understood French, shook his head and laughed softly.
“Welcome to America. I’d like to think we check such things at the border and count more on what you know and what you can do rather than who your great-grandfather was. Claim what you will, General Baron von Steuben. But, by God, if your plan to remake this army works, for all I care you could have been a bloody sergeant in the service of the Khans. Just make it work.”
Von Steuben actually felt tears cloud his eyes as he looked at his two newfound friends.
“When I think the time is right, I will broach this with General Washington,” Hamilton offered, “but first let’s see how your drill works out.”
He could not help but clasp their hands.
“It will work,” he reassured them intensely, voice choked with emotion.
Chapter Thirteen
Valley Forge
March 7, 1778
“My God, you look like starving sons of bitches!”
Peter Wellsley understood just enough German to at least think that was what this man pacing before him was saying, though the translator pacing behind the German rendered it “starving dogs.”
A flurry of laughter ran through the ranks, especially from the Pennsylvania men who fully understood German.
“But I do see that you are soldiers,” he announced loudly.
There were now murmurs of approval.
Rumors had swept through the encampment that this man was setting up some kind of training school, and that only the best would be picked from each regiment to attend. It would mean relief from fatigue duty working on the fortifications, an extra ration of meat, and the promise of promotion. There were more than enough volunteers.
To Peter’s delight, General Washington had insisted that his entire headquarters company was to attend as well. There were a hundred men from the various units of the army, and fifty from the headquarters.
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 35
