He had not expected this last night with Elizabeth, but André had told him that without doubt his wisest course was to make himself scarce till dawn, when everyone would be on the move. Chances were the officer would not even remember, and if he did, in all the confusion of the day the issue would be sidetracked for awhile.
After packing up his own luggage and loading it onto one of the wagons for Grey’s staff, he had posted himself in Ben Franklin’s library, acting as sentry to protect what was within. Though strict orders had been given that there were to be no acts of retribution, looting, or vandalism as the army evacuated, more than a few on the staff muttered that this was, after all, the property of “a signer,” and as such deserved special treatment.
In the middle of the night a major, drunk as usual, had staggered back from a final farewell night at his favorite stew house and brothel, and announced that he was going to borrow some of the books.
Allen felt that conceding a few books to the major might quell him and send him off, but the man had then proceeded to knock them off the shelves, an armload at a time. He intervened, using the strategy of offering the man a drink, which the major had taken, but then he had staggered over to the glass harmonica, holding the bottle, upended it, poured the brandy onto the instrument, then turned the bottle in his hand, holding it by the neck, preparing to smash it on the delicate crystal goblets within.
Allen had pulled him back and the struggle finally ended with a blow that knocked the major out cold. One of the sergeants of the guard was standing in the doorway, having come in to check on the commotion, and for a frozen moment Allen could see the very real prospect of a court-martial for striking a superior officer.
“Don’t you worry about it none, Mr. Dorn,” the sergeant whispered in a heavy Irish brogue. “I’ll take the gentleman to his room, tell him later he must have fallen. If he even remembers enough to ask.”
The burly sergeant hoisted the major on to his shoulder and carried him up the stairs, returning several minutes later.
“Asleep like a babe he is, though daresay he’ll have a time of it chewing his breakfast,” and the sergeant grinned conspiratorially. “I’ll let the word slip that some barkeep at the knocking shop did it.”
“Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Why?”
The sergeant looked at him.
“That thing you play there,” and he pointed to the harmonica, “it’s the voice of an angel it is. Like to think that someday the good doctor will be back here and play it again.”
“Thank you,” and Allen extended his hand. The sergeant, surprised, took it firmly.
“Besides, word is that the doctor’s son, our Loyalist governor of New Jersey, requested special protection for the house and General Grey did make them orders known. So we can say we was just following orders.”
What the sergeant had said was true. Franklin’s son was now the military governor of New Jersey for the Crown. Yet another family torn asunder by the war.
“I’d suggest you run along for a while, sir, perhaps see your fair lady one last time,” O’Donald whispered, and then winked. “If the good Captain André comes in, I’ll let him know. He’s a good ’un and to be trusted.”
The sergeant, standing watch, had enabled him to slip off, and with the strangely willing connivance of the family servant, he now rested by her side on a settee in the parlor, her parents asleep upstairs.
He had drifted off while holding her. They had said their farewell the night before, and he had not assumed he would have such a moment again, but when David answered his tapping on the back door and guided him in, and she had swept into his embrace moments later, all discretion and fear of her parents waking were cast aside.
They had drifted off for a brief moment, and now she chuckled at his account of the fight.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
Allen looked up with a start.
It was David, standing discreetly in the hallway outside the parlor.
“Yes, David.”
“Your parents, miss.”
She sighed.
“Thank you, David.”
She snuggled in closer to Allen.
“It is time, you have to leave.”
“I know,” and he felt his throat tighten.
“Will you write?” he asked.
“Of course. Though I daresay that Dr. Franklin’s postal service might not run for a while between Philadelphia and New York.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Which way do you think the army is heading once across the river?”
“To New York.”
“I know that; the entire city knows that.”
“So why do you ask?”
“Just curious. The weather is hot. It will be a hard march.”
Why was she asking? Her rebel sentiments were more than obvious to him, though she kept them in check. Officers for the last two weeks had been cautioned repeatedly to say nothing about the intended line of march. He knew as well that a careful game of false information had been laid out, as to the details of the march, so why was she asking?
“Call it feminine curiosity.”
And now he knew without any doubt what she was about.
“That or you have been sending information all along to Washington.” He paused. “You’ve been spying for Washington,” he whispered.
She did not reply, simply feigning surprise and then anger.
“How dare you at this very moment of parting make such an accusation?” He could tell that the anger was false, even though she pushed back from him, sat up, and pulled her hand away from him.
“Allen.”
He was not sure what to say.
“I do love you. I really do.”
“And I you,” and he hesitated. Had she been playing him all along?
“Till now?”
He didn’t reply.
“This damn war,” she sighed.
“I know. This damn war! No matter which side wins, chances are I will never see you again, Elizabeth.”
“What do you mean?” and he felt her hands tighten on his arms.
He shook his head ruefully.
“If we lose, do you think I can ever return to Trenton, or here?”
She looked at him and tears came to her eyes as she shook her head.
“And if we win, would you stay? Could you stay and marry me? Would you stay?”
Tears now rolled down her cheeks as she stifled back a sob.
“I would gladly marry you, Allen van Dorn. You are an honorable man and I love you. But could I stay here if we lose?” She lowered her head and shook it. “No,” she whispered.
He gently kissed her on her brow.
“I’ll always love you,” he whispered. Standing up, he left her, following David to slip out by the servants’ entrance and then out onto the street, heading down to the wharves. He had been ordered the night before to attend to the baggage wagons for General Grey and his staff as they were loaded aboard the ferry and crossed the river. He hoped he could remember where to find them.
The street was already lined with troops queuing up for the crossing.
The troops were hot with the damp morning heat, sweat pouring off of them as they stood in lines, waiting, burdened down in their heavy wool uniforms and full marching and battle gear, many carrying some extra loot in their packs and haversacks. Even without the booty they were taking, the average infantryman, between uniform, weapon, accoutrements, rations, and pack, carried upwards of eighty pounds, and after months of inactivity, except for the dragoons and light infantry skirmishing along the Schuylkill, the men were terribly out of shape. It was going to be a slow, exhausting, painful march across New Jersey back to New York City. This was a much less capable army than it had been when it marched proudly into Philadelphia half a year earlier.
Hundreds of boys and young men prowled around the edge of the crowd, grinning sardonically, offering taunts, a few of the more daring throwing h
orse droppings, egging on the “bloody lobsterbacks.” Strict orders had been given that any man who leveled a weapon and fired this morning would be summarily executed. Light infantry had been deployed as a cordon, backed by officers and sergeants, repeatedly ordering the men to stand steady.
It took several long minutes to find General Grey; he, his staff, and their mounts were already aboard a ferry that was about to leave. The sight startled him; he had not realized just how late he had lingered with Elizabeth.
John André extended a helping hand as Allen leapt from the dock to the ferry, its crew preparing to shove off.
Grey looked at him, making a point of producing his watch, opening the lid, and gazing intently at Allen and back to the watch. He snapped it shut.
“A farewell with the young lady, lieutenant?” Grey snapped.
He struggled not to take offense and simply nodded. There was a flicker of a smile from Grey, and he wondered if the major had filed a complaint and the boom was about to fall, but Grey said not another word as he turned away.
He was obviously in a foul mood, and Allen felt it best not to offer any excuse. Grey stalked to the front of the ferry as the crew, having shoved off from the dock, went to their oars. The eight men, all of them slaves, bare backs glistening with sweat, dug into the dirty water of the Delaware with their sweeps, angling upstream against the current.
“Good-bye, Philadelphia,” André sighed, making the gesture of blowing a kiss.
As they cleared the end of the wharf and the long row of oceangoing ships lining the docks, Allen saw that the broad river was alive with traffic, dozens of boats plying each way, back and forth across the river. Once clear of the closed-in heat of the dock and out on the river, now filled with whitecaps from a strong southwesterly breeze, the tension relaxed. Men began to talk, more than a few hurling insults back at the city, exclaiming their pleasure that soon they would be back in a proper loyal city.
Allen simply looked back wistfully.
“Did you see her again?” André asked.
“Yes.”
“Ask her to marry you?”
Allen found he wasn’t actually quite sure now.
He sighed and shook his head.
“I fear it is over. This war will drag on, she will eventually forget me.”
André put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Not so glum, my friend. Adventure awaits. A new campaign. Chance for promotion and glory. For me to take the next jump, without proper backing at home, we need a bloody good campaign. And besides, regarding fair ladies, there will be others.”
Allen forced a smile and said nothing.
“By the way, stay clear of Major Parsons,” André whispered. “Claims he has some memory that you struck him.”
Allen looked at André blank-faced.
“I’d have shot him myself if he had damaged our treasure,” André whispered, patting Allen on the shoulder. “If he looks for a duel, my friend, I’ll challenge him first.”
“What?”
“You are fresh fish for him, my dear provincial friend. He’ll think twice though before facing me. Have fought a couple already. No one killed, of course, but my honor was maintained, so don’t worry. Besides, a gentleman needs to fight a duel now and again. Not quite your case, though, if you forgive me saying so. And I can’t let it be said I didn’t protect a friend when he needed it.
“Anyhow,” he announced airily, “don’t care much for the man. Got his commission because his father made his money in the slave trade. Not a gentleman at all.”
Allen, flustered, did not know what to say. Could he ever fit into this world where even his friend called him a provincial?
He looked at the men around him and wondered what exactly it was they were fighting for. André spoke of adventure, a new campaign, and always the obsession all of them had for promotions, glory, and titles.
He thought of Jonathan and his comrades. Though he could not embrace their cause, given all the misery it had created in this world, nevertheless they did fight for something more. Even Elizabeth. In his heart he felt no real sense of betrayal or that she had, in some way, used him. She could have as easily gained her information from the flighty young Peggy Shippen, and most likely did. Yet she had just made it clear that if faced with choosing between him and what she believed in, she would chose that belief.
Could I do the same? he wondered. And in his heart he knew the dreadful answer. He could not. All his rationales for joining the Loyalist cause now seemed like so many empty words. Even his closest friend in this army would never quite see him as an equal, but would always view the world as an aristocrat, befriending and thus needing to protect a “provincial” friend from the son of a slave trader.
The nagging doubt that had been lingering all winter, festering within and, he realized now, fed by Elizabeth, came rushing in. I cannot embrace the rebel side, but I no longer feel part of the side I am on.
He lowered his head. André, thinking he was mourning the loss of Elizabeth, made a cheerful comment about the women who awaited their return to New York City and left him to his thoughts.
He thought again of Jonathan. Never had he felt so utterly alone.
Valley Forge
June 23, 1778
Peter Wellsley, no longer dressed in the castoffs given to him by the widow Hewes but in the proper uniform of blue and buff worn by the headquarters company of General Washington, stood at rigid attention at the approach of his commander.
Preparations for the march had been going on since the evening before. In the small stockyard nearly fifty head of cattle were being slaughtered, some of the meat passed out to the troops to roast on open fires. Meanwhile, with a fresh loaf of bread, a pound per man, coming out of the bakehouse, the poor souls laboring within for their General Baker were glad that this was the final night of such work for them. During the cold, dark days of January and February, the bakehouse job was one of the most sought-after in the entire army, for it was always warm, and at least there would be some fresh bread. But now, in late June, with temperatures soaring to ninety or more, and food again plentiful, it was hard for those men to stay at their tasks.
Yet still they labored, shifting from the baking of fresh bread to producing unleavened slabs of hard biscuits and hardtack for marching rations. The slaughtered beef not eaten in the feast of the night before would be salted down.
Extra cattle were already being driven ahead, preceded by foragers, armed with vouchers, who would sweep up additional supplies in advance of the army as it marched toward Trenton and from there into upper Jersey.
Haversacks were now stuffed with the freshly salted meat, a dozen palm-size slabs of hardtack, even a small ration of coffee beans, a luxury undreamed of throughout the long hard winter.
Ranks were dressed, marching columns formed, and a festive mood was in the air, for they were leaving this place at last. Few would look back nostalgically, except for those who had visited the cemetery yesterday and well into the evening, looking among the thousands of unmarked graves to where a brother, a comrade, a father might now lie. The hospital huts were still filled with nearly a thousand men too sick to march, men down with the ever-present flux and a myriad of other illnesses and injuries. When deemed fit, those still under enlistment would be sent up to join the ranks. If unfit or discharged, they would eventually be sent home when transport could be arranged.
There were more than a few tearful farewells, promises to write, or soldiers now healed going back to thank the women who had tended to them. He had sought out the old widow who today would move back into her house, and at the sight of him she burst into tears.
“Lad, I declare you’ve grown three inches and gained half a stone.”
He offered to return her departed husband’s overcoat and she had finally taken it, holding it between forefinger and thumb, declaring she would burn it, even though he had made certain to boil it the day before to insure that no lice lingered within its seams. As for
the trousers, they were beyond hope, and he had thrown them aside when he had been issued his new uniform. He offered to pay her for the boots she had given him, and which he still wore, even though the soles were now paper-thin, but she would have none of it. Then, after saying a brief prayer over him asking for the Lord’s protection, she had sent him on his way, wiping the tears from her eyes with her apron.
The general was now near him and he could see the look in the man’s eyes. They were no longer careworn as he had remembered them across the dark months. His features were alive, eyes glinting as he gazed out upon the ranks drawn up on the parade ground, brigade after brigade drawn up in column of fours, the parade ground stamped smooth from their months of drill.
The general was not given to speeches. There had been plenty enough over the last hour, from Lafayette and Greene, even a halting one from Inspector General von Steuben, which had been met with cheers. The German drillmaster was now one of the most popular officers with the rank and file, noted for his growing command of Anglo-Saxon profanities, his giant dog who in reality had the heart of a lamb, and most of all for what he had taught them they could be.
Von Steuben rode behind the general and alongside Lafayette, whose Guards Brigade would lead the march.
The day was hot. Sweat coursed down Peter’s face and the back of his neck. The uniform was heavy and far too warm, but he did not mind it, not with the memory of so many months of almost freezing to death, a fate that had literally taken several of his fellow guards while on sentry duty.
The general reined in and then gazed out silently at the columns drawn up. He was silent, saying nothing, all eyes upon him.
It looked as if he was about to say something, but Peter could sense there would be no words, for those closest to him could see the emotion that he was trying to mask as he gazed upon this new army, now approaching fifteen thousand strong. Phoenix-like, it had risen from the misery and ashes of this place…Valley Forge would forever after conjure up anguish, cold, defeat…but also endurance, dedication, and rebirth.
Washington drew his sword and, standing in his stirrups, saluted the color guard holding aloft his flag of command, beside it the new colors of the army and the nation, the thirteen red and white stripes and a circle of thirteen stars in a cantonment of blue. Next, gazing out at the troops, he offered a salute to them as well.
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 42
