Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  “Would you marry me?” he blurted out, voice beginning to choke.

  She looked up at him.

  “When the war is over we’ll talk of such things,” she said.

  Their semblance of privacy disappeared as the double doors into the meeting hall were flung open. The audience began to throng out, some heading for other parties, others for more private rendezvous, couples going off alone into the night, the few unfortunates whose battalions were on watch for the night reporting back for duty.

  “Capital, John, simply capital! Good old John Bull at the end like that!”

  Allen turned to see his friend in the doorway, accepting congratulations from General Howe, John politely inclining his head as the commander praised him. With his current mistress on his arm, General Howe started down the steps. Allen released Elizabeth from his arms and came stiffly to attention, the general nodding to him and passing on, followed by his entourage of staff and their ladies.

  Elizabeth did not offer a curtsy, remaining stock-still, and as the group passed she sniffed.

  “Well, I see Beatrice Walker has succumbed,” she whispered under her breath.

  “Who?”

  “Beatrice, she’s with that fawning major of Howe’s staff.”

  And then she laughed softly.

  “And she will be certain to tell my father she saw me with you, the gossip.” He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Perhaps not—the question might be raised of how did she see you?” he offered, and she laughed softly.

  “What did you think?”

  It was André, beaming with excitement, coming down the steps to join them, Peggy Shippen clinging to his side.

  “Afraid I missed the ending,” Allen offered, and then smiled “but the reports from within were rather thunderous.”

  André laughed.

  “Double-loaded the pistols with powder and I told that big oaf playing John Bull, Lieutenant Harrison, to point them high so no one would get burned. Instead he aimed it straight at poor Lieutenant O’Brian’s chest, burned a hole clean through his jacket. No love lost between the two, they had a falling-out over a woman, you know.”

  He stopped for a moment, looking at Elizabeth, and decided to say no more on that subject, since the woman in question was notorious for her lack of virtue of late.

  “No one hurt, thank God, but it scared the hell out of O’Brian. Rather than fall down dead, he just stood there patting at the flames and cursing Harrison like an Irish washerwoman. It was rich.” He sighed. “Pray, it doesn’t turn into a real duel later.”

  He turned away for a moment to accept the congratulations of others who were leaving. Apparently the near-tragic mistake at the end was actually the high point, and he accepted the compliments concerning the humorous ending as if it had been planned thus all along.

  “Have you heard?” Peggy whispered loudly to Elizabeth.

  “Heard what?”

  “About General Howe! The room was all abuzz with the rumors.”

  “And that is?”

  “He will be relieved and ordered back to England to report on his failure to finish the war.”

  Allen looked at her, startled.

  “Is the rumor true?” Elizabeth asked out loud.

  “Which rumor?” André asked. “You are curious, my dear, aren’t you? That Howe has a second mistress? That his brother the admiral has the pox? That the king of Prussia has started an affair with the czarina of Russia?”

  “You know what I mean,” she replied with a smile.

  “Oh, General Howe? Has this fine lady been talking? I told her not to say a word!”

  He looked good-naturedly at Peggy and then gave her a playful swat on her backside. She looked up at him, grinned, and replied with a slight tap on the cheek with her closed fan.

  “I am, sir, a lady and will not brook such crass behavior.”

  “My apologies, ma de moi selle,” he replied with exaggerated courtesy.

  “Just rumors,” André offered and then he drew closer. “So my dear Miss Peggy, please do not attach my name to them.”

  The party inside was growing louder by the minute.

  “They’re celebrating,” he sighed. “Couldn’t wait for the old man to leave.”

  He shook his head. “My theater company can clean up and see to themselves.

  I’m played out for the evening, and enough congratulations have been said.

  To hang about for more would be boorish. And a gentleman should never be boorish.

  “Shall we retire to our quarters? Miss Elizabeth, please do come, your secret is safe with me, as I am certain it will be with Miss Peggy.”

  Elizabeth hesitated but then nodded in agreement.

  The two couples walked the few blocks to Benjamin Franklin’s former residence, still the headquarters for General Grey and his staff. Elizabeth hesitated at the doorway for a moment, furtively looking around to see if anyone might notice her entering a private dwelling with only one other couple, who, it was rumored throughout the city, were already engaged in an affair.

  André took her by the arm and led her in, motioning for them to go into their favorite room, the library, while he fetched a bottle of claret. Wine poured for his guests, he settled down in an overstuffed leather chair, stretched out his legs, and sighed.

  “The king, Howe, and Clinton,” he said softly, raising his glass, the others following suit—but Elizabeth, without fanfare or overt display, did not take a drink.

  “Clinton?” Allen asked.

  “My young friend. It is all rumor,” André said, and now he looked pointedly at Peggy, who blushed slightly but returned his gaze.

  “Dispatch ship, as we all know, arrived this morning. Very fast passage, under four weeks. The London papers are filled with the news that France has declared war in support of the Americans. Bitter denouncements in Parliament, statements as well that General Howe had utterly failed to properly support poor old Johnny Burgoyne in upstate New York, thus the defeat at Saratoga was not Burgoyne’s fault but that of both General Howe and his brother the admiral. His critics in Parliament argue that rather than move here to Philadelphia, he should have ventured up the Hudson to relieve the beleaguered northern army. Thus Clinton.”

  “Why Clinton?” Elizabeth asked softly.

  André looked at her for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s no secret now. Last summer he argued vehemently for the army to move with all possible haste to relieve Burgoyne. General Howe, instead, ruled that we take Philadelphia and that Burgoyne could take care of himself. He did allow Clinton to venture with a small force up the Hudson, but by then it was too late. Burgoyne was cut off and Clinton was forced to turn back in frustration.”

  André looked into his now empty glass and then refilled it.

  “And what do you think Howe should have done?” Elizabeth ventured.

  André looked at her and forced a smile.

  “A proper officer never questions his superiors,” he replied, a bit of a chill in his voice.

  “Maybe at times you should,” Elizabeth replied, and Allen looked over at her with surprise.

  “Yet again, Miss Elizabeth, your spirit strikes me as rebellious,” André announced.

  “And if I am?”

  He smiled.

  “Your secret is safe with me, as I am certain it is with Miss Peggy.”

  “I have said nothing against the king or those who serve him,” she replied coolly, and André, ever the gentleman, nodded to her.

  “Even if you had, your secret is safe with me, though I daresay that if you wish to continue to associate with our good Lieutenant van Dorn you should be cognizant of his career.”

  She looked at Allen, blushed, and then lowered her head in acknowledgment.

  “Van Dorn and Clinton do have something in common,” André offered.

  “And that is?” Allen asked.

  “Clinton is also colonial by birth. He was born in Newfoundland, came of age
in New York, and actually served in the colonial militia before taking a regular commission, returning only then to England and rising through the ranks. Of course his family in England was of help with that, but born a colonial nevertheless.”

  “And thus some might say he understands the war here better than most,” Elizabeth offered.

  André nodded.

  “Exactly, and thus the rumors. He has a strong faction behind him in England. Some are saying he was right all along and that, if his advice had been followed, rather than a defeat at Saratoga, the rebel army there would have been trapped between two forces and annihilated. With the Hudson thus secured, the full strength of our army could have been turned against General Washington this year. That with our victory at Saratoga rather than that of Gates and his rabble, France would definitely have remained neutral.”

  He sighed.

  “It’s going to be a long war.”

  He refilled his glass yet again and looked at Allen.

  “Your thoughts?”

  “As you said,” Allen replied, “it is not my place to question my superiors, especially when it comes to who commands.”

  “Well, I think you can guess my thoughts,” André said, his features now impassive.

  “Do you think we’ll start the new campaign soon?” Allen asked.

  “Campaign?”

  “Against Valley Forge?”

  André returned his gaze to his glass, drained it, refilled it, and then shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Allen asked. “The weather has been good for the last week, the frost is out of the ground, the roads are drying out. Now would be the perfect time to strike.”

  “Not now. Not with the scent of a change of command in the air. Not with France declaring war. This is now the largest army we have in the Americas, but with France in the war, orders might come any day diverting us from what should have been done months ago.”

  “And that is?”

  “Finish it, rather than sit here, growing fat and lazy and making up plays. We could have finished it in December with a forced march on Valley Forge, but our leaders said it was over, and besides why fight when we could spend the winter in warmth and comfort, our bellies full, while that rabble in arms starved and melted away?

  “But they didn’t melt away. They are still out there, ragged and starving, it is true, but they are still out there and we still just sit here.”

  There was a bitter edge to his voice, and, realizing he had said too much, he waved his hand in dismissal, as if trying to wipe away what he had just said.

  “Come, my friend, your turn to entertain us,” he announced, pointing to the harmonica. “I’ve done enough entertaining for tonight.”

  Allen hesitated, but, with Peggy and Elizabeth now both urging him as well, he sat down in front of the instrument, pushing on the pedals to get the lathe turning. Dipping his fingertips into the bowl of fine powdered chalk, he finally touched one of the spinning crystal spheres, producing a single haunting note. Then, delighted to be able to show off how much he had been practicing since his barely adequate performance of the previous month, he applied four fingers, then six, and began the Mozart.

  He concentrated on it intently, barely making a mistake, caught finally in the rapture of the sound. When at last he had finished he sat back with a sigh, the last chord drifting away.

  There was no comment or applause. He looked around and was startled to see that only Elizabeth was in the room, standing behind him, looking down at him, a hand going lightly to his shoulder.

  There was no one in the adjoining room across the hall and the silence was startling.

  “They went upstairs,” she whispered.

  He looked up at her. There was no look of shock or disdain. She was actually smiling. It was the way she was smiling, though…

  “Would you walk me home?”

  Barely a word was spoken as they walked the few blocks back to her home. For Allen it seemed like an eternity. The way she had looked at him. What did it portend?

  As she approached the corner of her home, she slipped her hand into his and guided him down the carriageway to the back of the house and the servants’ entrance. The house was dark except for the glow of a lantern in the kitchen.

  She did not stop at the door, as if to turn to say good night. He felt as if his heart would burst as she held his hand tight, squeezed it, looked to him with an almost childlike, mischievous smile, and put a finger to her lips to signal for him to be quiet.

  She led the way in and for an instant his heart froze. Someone was standing in the kitchen, one of the family servants.

  “David, this is the young man I was telling you about. David, this is Lieutenant van Dorn.”

  “Sir,” and he nodded slightly.

  Allen, inwardly shaking, could only nod in reply.

  “My mother?” she asked.

  “Asleep, missus. The doctor gave her an opiate so she could sleep.”

  “The other servants?”

  “This is their night off, missus. I am the only one here and they will return and go straight to their quarters, missus.”

  “Thank you, David.”

  “Allen, would you care for something to drink?”

  “Miss Elizabeth?” There was indeed a trembling in his voice.

  She laughed softly.

  “A bottle of my father’s port, David. You choose the bottle.”

  The man smiled and left the kitchen carrying a candle as he ventured into the basement.

  Still holding his hand, she led the way out of the kitchen through the dining room and into the parlor. The room was dark, illuminated only by the glow of moonlight.

  She sat down on the sofa, nearly pulling him down by her side. He sat nervous, silent, coming to his feet when David returned, bearing a silver tray upon which was an open bottle of port, two crystal goblets already filled, and a candle.

  He set them down, smiled, and nodded.

  “I am retiring, miss,” he announced.

  “Thank you, David.”

  “Good night to you, sir.”

  He nodded, still not sure how to reply.

  “And don’t worry, Mrs. Risher, she is fast asleep until dawn.”

  Allen wondered if the man had actually winked at him.

  David bowed again to the two and withdrew.

  Allen stood dumbfounded and actually stepped away from the sofa, going over to the harpsichord as if to examine the sheets of music.

  “If you play one note on that thing, you know it will wake my mother,” Elizabeth announced.

  He looked back at her.

  “Ah, Miss Risher, are you sure you are…” His voice trailed off as she laughed softly and patted where he had been sitting.

  “Lieutenant van Dorn, surely the British army has taught you how to behave like a gentleman. Now come sit by my side and share some port with me.”

  He did as ordered, draining off his goblet a bit too hastily while she sipped hers.

  “You must think me a woman of terrible virtue to behave like this,” she finally said, breaking the nervous silence.

  “No, miss…”

  “For heaven’s sake, Allen, it’s Elizabeth. I wanted to dance with you and kiss you the first night we met back in Trenton. I’ve sat in my room alone night after night waiting for you to work up the courage to come call, so I resort to this.”

  He looked over at her. She had her glass resting on the tray and ever so gently took his and set it down as well.

  “Now, for heaven’s sake, young man, kiss me.”

  He did as ordered, the sweetest order he had ever received, and was startled how she melted into his embrace.

  She finally leaned back slightly, breaking their embrace.

  “Allen van Dorn, forgive my boldness, but you have never done this before, have you?”

  He wanted to lie but could not.

  “With a lady, Elizabeth? Never.”

  “Ah, but with someone not
a lady?”

  He thought of the few fumbled attempts in New York before the war, when he would go there with his father and slip off with friends to stews, as they were called.

  He thought it best not to answer.

  “You must think I am horrid and will never call upon me again after tonight, or should I say now, this morning.”

  “Elizabeth…” His voice trailed off.

  “And, no, don’t ask me again, Allen,” she sighed, but continued to smile.

  He could only shake his head.

  “With that understood, does it bother you?”

  “I love you, Elizabeth.”

  “But does it bother you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Swear? Cross your heart?”

  “I swear,” he whispered.

  She leaned forward and kissed him lightly.

  “If not for this damn war, Allen, I would not behave like this. But who knows how long,” she hesitated, “either of us have. I could not bear the thought of you going back into the war and my not having at least one night with you.”

  “Nor I.”

  “Then we understand each other?”

  “I think so.”

  She smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him again, this time without restraint.

  Valley Forge

  April 9, 1778

  Ever so rarely would he let emotions show, but at this moment George Washington sat silent, eyes clouded.

  The entire room was silent except for the actors on the stage and the crackling and popping of the banked-down fires. The bakehouse this night was their playhouse, rough-hewn benches serving as seats for himself and the invited ladies. The long length of the rest of the room was packed, doors open, more gathered outside for this performance of Joseph Addison’s Cato.

  General Baker of the Army Christopher Ludwig had objected most strenuously to his bakehouse’s being converted into a playhouse for the evening, but he now sat in the corner, openly weeping, as were many in the audience.

  All knew it was Washington’s favorite play; he had memorized nearly every line years ago, and it was considered by many to be “the play” of the Revolution. Patrick Henry all but quoted it with his famous cry, as had the martyr Nathan Hale just before he gave his life.

  And now, in this final act, Cato, implacable foe of Caesar, defender of Republicanism against Monarchy, was dying. After Caesar’s victory at Thapsus and the crushing of the last resistance by those opposed to his seizure of power from the Senate, Cato had chosen death by his own hand to life under the tyranny of the usurper.