Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  The actor playing Cato, a lieutenant with Anthony Wayne’s staff, a survivor of Paoli, saber scar on his face a fierce reminder of that night, slowly lay down.

  Portius come near me—are my friends embarked?

  Can anything be thought of for their service?

  Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain.

  Some could not conceal their weeping as Cato hoped that his death might divert Caesar so that his beloved sons and the few followers who had stayed loyal to him could still escape the wrath of the dictator.

  Whoe’er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman—

  —I’m sick to death—O when shall I get loose

  From this vain world, th’ abode of guilt and sorrow!

  Washington could feel Martha’s hand tighten in his. He knew her deepest fear. It was not his death on a battlefield of victory…it was what she knew he would do if he realized that indeed all was lost…that he would seek death on the field of defeat, the last man to die for the cause, never to surrender. Though he had not spoken of it, he had so resolved on the night march to Trenton. And when the campaign of spring came, if indeed after this eternal winter of suffering, and now of at least some hope, if defeat became inevitable, he would chose the path of Cato rather than fall into the hands of the enemies of his country.

  On my departing soul. Alas! I fear

  I’ve been too hasty. O ye powers, that search

  The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts,

  If I have done amiss, impute it not!

  He closed his eyes even as Cato, on the stage little more than an arm’s length away, slumped down and closed his eyes. The man did not perform in the style of nearly all professional actors, declaiming his last lines loudly, arms flung wide, crying out as he swooned and death took hold. There was not a man in this room who had not seen death. Nor was there barely one who had not held a dying comrade, struggling to ease his final moments, leaning close to hear his last whispered words for loved ones, wives, children, parents, and then whispering a prayer in reply.

  The actor portraying Lucius, Cato’s closest friend and ally, knelt down by the side of his comrade, holding him close, actually crying for a moment. The actor was an elderly sergeant with a Massachusetts regiment. He had begged for the part when Hamilton had first suggested a performance, reciting every line flawlessly at the very first rehearsal. His passion for it now showed.

  Washington could not help but wonder what inner woe this man carried from the war and now poured so fervently into his performance.

  There fled the greatest soul that ever warmed

  A Roman breast; O Cato! O my friend!

  He paused for a moment and then looked straight out at the audience:

  From hence, let fierce contending nations know

  What dire effects from civil discord flow.

  ’Tis this that shakes our country with alarms,

  And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms,

  Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife,

  And robs the guilty world of Cato’s life.

  The room was silent. No applause, only silence, except for those who could not control their tears. For the play was of them, about them, about the ordeal they were now enduring…and ahead, fate might still lead them to this moment.

  There was no curtain to draw closed, the stage illuminated by half a dozen lanterns only. Hamilton and Laurens stood up and, stepping forward, bent over and blew out each lantern, darkening the stage.

  No one spoke, and Washington could sense that all eyes were turned toward him, the actors in expectation of some praise. He squeezed Martha’s hand and stood up, but he did not ascend the few steps to the stage, instead turning and facing the audience.

  He struggled to clear his throat.

  “This—” He paused. “Keep this in your hearts. Cato’s death was not in vain, for it inspires us to this day. The death of our comrades must not be in vain. Let their sacrifice be our inspiration in the days to come.

  “God be with you all, and may God forever bless this Republic, which we hold so dear.”

  He had not prepared any speech, had not intended to speak at all. His delight in agreeing to the production of the play was the hope that it would serve as inspiration. He sensed it had done far more this night than he had ever hoped for, and his few words could not add to the experience but only detract from it if he continued.

  “Good night, comrades.”

  He extended his hand to Martha. She stood and together the two left the bakehouse, those gathered in the doorway drawing back respectfully as they left.

  The full moon cast a light nearly as bright as day. They walked together in silence, her hand tightly clasping his. He looked down at her.

  “Martha.”

  “Yes.”

  “If,” he hesitated, “if our cause should not win through, you know what I must do.”

  She didn’t speak.

  “In the end, we cannot, we will not, lose. Others will follow afterwards, a generation hence, maybe a hundred, two hundred years hence, but in the end it will triumph. Caesar and those after him did believe they had won for the moment, but in the end tyranny will always destroy itself as long as good men and women stand against it.”

  He sighed.

  “I am sorry for what I have put you through, Martha. I did not want this.”

  “Do you think I would love you more if you had not chosen this path, George?” she replied, and there was the slightest touch of reproach in her voice.

  “It is because you are who you are that I love you.”

  He squeezed her hand tightly.

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  “I’ll invite the actors to sup with us tomorrow as a thank-you.”

  He smiled at her suggestion. Leave it to her to find the proper thank-you he could not find a voice for tonight.

  “I want them to perform this again and again, until every last man and woman with this army has seen it.”

  “I think, George, they are eager to do so.”

  “When this war is over, we will go home, Martha, there to live in peace.”

  “Of course, George,” and she sighed. “Of course your duty will be done when this war ends. Like Cincinnatus.”

  He looked down at her and laughed softly.

  “Yes, like him.”

  “Before or after he was called back to serve his country yet again?” she whispered, as she turned and buried her head against his chest, struggling to conceal her tears.

  Philadelphia

  April 10, 1778

  “David?”

  “I’m ready, missus.”

  She looked down at her letter. Allen had left more than an hour ago. It already seemed like an eternity, and her hands trembled as she folded up the letter and handed it to David. He slipped the note into an open seam of his coat. He already had needle and thread ready and in little more than a minute she deftly sewed the seam shut.

  David had already tucked into his vest pocket a second note, the cover letter for his journey: a plaintive appeal to an alleged lover, a Methodist minister living out beyond Darby whose child she was carrying. The letter demanded his acknowledgement of her and his responsibility to marry her. If he were to be stopped by pickets or roving patrols, they would find only this second letter.

  He had indeed been stopped once, and the discovered false note had triggered a derisive response. The sergeant of the patrol had sent him on his way with ribald comments that his owner should choose someone other than a Methodist preacher to have a liaison with.

  Of course, a thorough examination by someone who knew the tricks of the trade would soon uncover the resewn seam. If discovered it would mean death for David and, most likely, imprisonment for her, and an inquiry would soon trace its way back to Allen, who had talked far too openly in the hours that had just passed.

  Finished with the sewing, and biting off the end of the thread, she looked into David’s eyes.

  “God be with you, my friend,
” she whispered.

  “With His protection I will be safe, missus.”

  She hesitated.

  “David.”

  “Yes, missus?”

  “David…” Her voice trailed off, tears filling her eyes.

  With an almost fatherly touch he put his hands on her shoulder, and held her as she cried.

  “I know, missus, I know. You truly do love him.”

  “I do,” she whispered. “I feel so terrible. I feel like…”

  “Hush now,” he whispered, but his voice was sharp, insistent. “When this war ends, the two of you will be together.”

  “If he knew, he would spit on me.”

  “Oh, missus. Believe me.” He chuckled. “If every man knew every secret within a woman’s heart. May I humbly suggest that this little secret is between us and I shall carry it to my grave?”

  “Don’t talk like that,” she replied, looking up into his dark features.

  “Sorry, a wrong choice of words. Now don’t you fret. Go to bed and sleep. I will be back by midday.”

  “Please be safe.”

  “Remember, missus, I have a wife and children to return to. And someday…”

  Her father had not purchased his family, who were still slaves in New York, though he promised often enough he would…someday.

  “When this war is over, David.”

  “No promises, missus. But, bless you, I know you will honor them if you can.”

  “It is the least this country can do for you.”

  He did not reply.

  She stepped back, taking his hand. “May God protect you on your way,” she whispered, lowering her head in prayer, “guiding your footsteps along the way, to safely return to this home and family.”

  He drew back and was out the door and gone.

  She blew out the candle in the kitchen and went back to the parlor, where she and Allen had been little more than an hour ago. She stood silent, gazing about, making sure no evidence of his stay was present.

  It was hard to hold back the tears. When she had approached Dr. Rush, months ago, asking how she could serve her country when it was evident that the British would take this city, he had smiled and then innocently suggested that all she need do was keep her ears open, act charming, and nothing more.

  Her friend Peggy had pointed the way, openly flinging herself at one of the most eligible bachelors with the army, Captain André, but she was so flighty, and now so in love with him, that to enlist her in this conspiracy was foolish, if not outright dangerous. Besides, she was more than eager to spill every secret she learned to prove her powers over the captain.

  But never had she contemplated doing what she had just done. Peggy was source enough of information, but to so use the innocent love of Allen as she had tonight left her feeling cold—soiled, even. David had not hesitated when she had nervously queried him about the prospect of Allen and her having a rendezvous in the house. He had covered for her before: A young officer from New York who had died last summer of the fever had slipped in more than once while garrisoned in the city, so it was no shock to this loyal family servant.

  And yet what of Allen?

  If he had not been an officer on Grey’s staff and a friend of André’s, would she have lured him here tonight?

  There was at least that reassurance. She would have because she loved him regardless. The rumors and news aside, in a few short months at most he would be gone. Win or lose, if this war did not end soon, chances of his living were slim at best. At least that logic helped to calm her soul a bit. If by using what he had said, she could help to insure a swift ending to this war, she might thereby spare his life. Then indeed she would marry him, and only David and she would know the full truth: that she had betrayed him even as she loved him in the hope of somehow saving him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Philadelphia

  June 10, 1778

  “Gentlemen, we shall evacuate this city and return our base of operations to New York City.”

  A murmur of voices greeted this bold, straightforward statement.

  Sir Henry Clinton, the new commander of His Majesty’s forces in the Americas, let his officers speak among themselves for a moment. Of course they knew it was coming; all of Philadelphia had been seething with rumors. What he was calling a movement of his base of operations was in fact a retreat, and he had been saddled with doing it.

  He held no real animosity toward the Howe brothers; they had treated him well enough, had given to him the lion’s share of honor and glory for the battle of Long Island, the battle that had won him a knighthood. Nevertheless, it was they who had created this situation, and now they were gone. General Howe had been ordered to return to England to receive proper recognition, as was said in the official dispatches, but in reality it might very well turn into a court of inquiry for his utter failure, after two years, to crush this rebellion once and for all.

  For heaven’s sake, Clinton thought sourly, as he looked around the room at his brigade commanders and staff. The men he was losing to garrison islands in the Caribbean because of France entering the war were some of his elite troops, seasoned to the climate of this place after two long years. Half the poor buggers would most likely die of malaria and yellow jack before the summer was out in Jamaica.

  If they were doomed to die, the real enemy was here, only twenty-two miles away. With those five thousand veteran troops, he would be more than a match for Washington and could finish this war as it should have been finished six months ago. There at Valley Forge was the true heart of this war. Something that London did not see. It was, at this moment, Washington and his ever-growing army alone that mattered. The American ranks were swelling every day, and there were disturbing reports of a German drillmaster who was changing the main corps of that ragtag force into something different, a trained army.

  “Why don’t we attack now instead and be done with it?” General Grey snarled, and there was a chorus of agreements.

  “I have to follow orders from London,” Clinton replied, and there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “You only have local knowledge of the real situation. You do not appreciate the subtleties of our masters looking at a world stage.”

  It was obviously not how he felt; each word was spoken with bitterness.

  “Hang the damn orders!” Grey retorted, and now there were even louder assertions of agreement. “Win the victory, then write back and ask them if you should let the prisoner Washington go with apologies even though we’ve already hanged him.”

  There were snickers of laughter around the room.

  “I want Washington as much as you do,” Clinton snapped, slapping his fist on the table.

  “Then let us take him. I beg you, sir, we could do this within the week and the war will be over.”

  Grey looked around the room to the other brigade commanders for support. Most were nodding yes.

  “Their Lordships are attempting to manage a war from a distance of four thousand miles. We are here, twenty-two miles away. Seize the moment, seize the moment, sir. How often did Caesar ignore the orders of the Senate when in Spain and Gaul?”

  “To his everlasting infamy,” Clinton replied softly.

  “Or one could say his greater glory,” Grey replied.

  He could not admit it to this audience, but in his heart he agreed with Grey. The Howe brothers had made a bungling mess of it all and now London was going to compound their mistakes. Why can’t they see that you can’t run a war from such a distance?

  Yet he had weighed the odds. Five thousand men were, this day, beginning to take ship for the Caribbean. They would have to make a long and arduous voyage to the south, running contrary to winds and currents. It could take six weeks, perhaps two months, before they arrived at Jamaica. And only three months hence, when the hurricane season began, no admiral would dare to venture his fleet on open waters to stage an attack in that region. Across two hundred years, countless fleets had just simply disappeared or limped back to port,
shattered by the late summer and autumn storms that raked the tropics.

  If only I had those five thousand at my disposal today, rather than going down to the docks to see them off.

  He inwardly sighed.

  Or am I using that as an excuse? he wondered.

  It was one thing to be second or third in command and to then second-guess your superior, who was bearing the kind of weighty responsibility now entrusted to him.

  If I venture battle, perhaps against superior odds, and lose, I will be forever cursed, another Admiral Byng.

  He thought of the words of a French philosopher contemplating the tragic fate of Byng: Dans ce pays-ci, il est bon de tuer de temps en temps un amiral pour encourager les autres.

  Disobey, but I do not win a full and total victory? Hanged, then, for the encouragement of others not to take risks?

  Besides, New York is exposed. The garrison there is less than five thousand strong, most of them second-rate troops left behind last summer. There is little clear intelligence as to how much of the Americans’ northern army, victorious at Saratoga, was still in the field in the Hudson Valley.

  Though he had gone through the mental exercise repeatedly since word had arrived of the transfer of command, his calculations always came out the same. A daring thrust to Valley Forge could just possibly win the day. Yet the victory might not be a Blenheim or a Quebec, a blow effectively assuring victory. It could be a standoff, or, as he advanced on Valley Forge, Washington could decamp, strike across New Jersey, and attempt to grab New York City by a quick, daring assault. There was even the fear, expressed by Their Lordships, that rather than strike in the Caribbean, the French might venture to land a force on Long Island, in conjunction with a strike by Washington from New Jersey, and seize New York while he dallied here.

  And yet with all of these dangers, they take five thousand of my best from me.