The Glorious Cause (41 page)

“Mr. Greene, I agree. I would like you to volunteer for the position. Congress will be so informed, and I will insist they make official the appointment in a rapid manner.”

Greene looked at him with wide eyes.

“Me?”

“Since the position comes only with the rank of brigadier general, you may retain your rank on the line.”

“Surely there is . . . is there no one else . . .
me,
sir?”

“There is no one more capable in this army. You will not sacrifice your command. When General Howe resumes his campaign, I will require the services of every capable officer. But I will also require a capable army, men who have the strength and the means to march and fight. That . . . will be your job.”

Greene slumped in the saddle, stared down the long hill.

“General Washington, may I be allowed to volunteer my services as quartermaster general of this command?”

“We are grateful for your service, Mr. Greene.”

The congress reluctantly approved Washington’s selection, and within days, Greene had made a loud presence before the Board of War, had inserted himself into the comfortable parlors of the men who had been so free in their criticism and campaigns against Washington. The congress began to hear another side of Gates’ story, Greene visited in York by Morgan and Stirling, men who told their own tales of Saratoga, who gave many in the congress a different view of Gates and his friend Conway.

Greene inserted himself as well into the soft complacency of the commissary offices, with a fiery impatience for the bumbling and bickering of the quartermaster staff. Though some took immediate offense at this intrusion into their private domain, others accepted Greene’s authority, and Washington began to hear a new rumbling from York, that the rusted machinery that had caused so much suffering to his army might finally begin to move.

A letter had come from Lafayette, and Washington read the report with a mix of anger and relief. The Board of War had made loud its boasts to the young Frenchman that three thousand troops would be waiting for his arrival in Albany, fully prepared for the march into Canada. They would be joined as well by an outpouring of militia from the area, the call going out to so many of those who had served Gates’ command against Burgoyne. But Lafayette arrived in Albany to find that the troops numbered barely over a thousand and that no one had made any effort to bring out the militia units at all.

The army had never been able to mount a successful invasion of Canada, and despite his faith in Lafayette’s zeal and ability, this mission had never inspired Washington’s confidence. The mission was simply halted, and he was relieved that the young man would return to Valley Forge, to wait with the rest of the command for the new campaigns of spring.

Washington ordered Lafayette’s letter copied and sent to the congress. Now, the Board of War would discover that their casual planning and boisterous predictions had collapsed around them, that men who shaped and viewed their strategy through the bottom of a wineglass could not manipulate his army for their own designs. It was a public embarrassment to the Board of War, and a hard blow to those who had championed Horatio Gates as their one true military leader.

At Valley Forge, Martha’s presence added a softness to the headquarters that brought other wives to camp, Kitty Greene, Lucy Knox, and a subdued but refreshing social scene. There would not be the finery and ballroom antics of the British, but muted gatherings more fitting to the mood of the army, to the resources they could muster, and the gentle style of the one woman who brought it together.

The wagon that had followed Martha into camp had brought the small luxuries that would most readily survive the journey, cheese and nuts, hard breads and dried fruit. It was a welcome addition to the typical routine, and now, in the cold evenings, the headquarters was a softer place, a beacon of candlelight. The mood of the house spread to the army as well, and even the angry protests from men who had seen neither meat nor rum were muted by her presence.

By late February, there was a new routine, music and singing, even Washington aware that the army was changing, the horrors and sacrifice now a shared experience that united the men in their cause. There was no militia now, the army at Valley Forge did not suffer from the sudden loss of regiments, or the sudden arrival of raw, undisciplined troops. There were few expiring enlistments, the men more focused on enduring the rest of the winter with as little misery as the weather would offer and as much sustenance as the new quartermaster could provide.

They had visitors still, and Washington relied on Martha’s natural cordiality with the civilians. With the foreign soldiers, Washington had accepted his role, had become practiced at diplomacy. The congress had been chastened, was not as likely to bestow vast authority on every European officer who demanded it. But the foreigners continued to come, some smarting from the lack of gratitude from the congress, some just seeking their opportunity for glory and adventure. As the papers were forwarded to Valley Forge, one man stood out, and Washington had taken special note, the man carrying a letter from Ben Franklin. He was a Prussian, unusual, and word came to Washington that the man had impressed the congress with the same humility they had seen in Lafayette. Like the young Frenchman, he came only as a volunteer, sought service by any means Washington himself would suggest. Washington found himself eager to meet this man who had both charmed and impressed his American hosts, this man who carried such lofty credentials, such a close relationship to Frederick the Great. The Prussian king was Europe’s finest soldier, and now, Washington would receive into his army one of King Frederick’s most celebrated aides, Baron Frederick von Steuben.

F
EBRUARY 23, 1778

He waited just beyond the outposts on the road that came from York. His guards were in formation behind him, a wide arcing line, several of his staff just inside their ranks. Washington held the horse in the middle of the road, watched as a cluster of riders made their way up a long hill, the horses stepping high through a fresh layer of loose snow. He caught sight of a dog, a thin rail of an animal, bounding rapidly behind the horses.

They were close enough that he could see the details of their uniforms, and he thought, American, how odd. Well, perhaps not so odd after all. If they are to serve in this army, they should dress the part. How better to make a favorable impression, especially for a man who claims to serve as a volunteer. It was obvious which one was von Steuben, an older man, large in the saddle. There was something on the man’s chest, bouncing as he rode, a large flat disc, a medal nearly the size of a bread plate. There was another medal as well, pinned in place, a massive star, and as the man rode closer, Washington could see bits of color, the star encrusted with jewels. The parade halted, only a few yards in front of him, and Washington looked at the older man, said, “General von Steuben, welcome to Valley Forge. Welcome to the army of the United States of America.”

The man nodded, formal, did not smile, and another man rode forward, said, “General Washington, I am Peter Duponceau, aide and secretary to General von Steuben. I also serve as the general’s interpreter. General von Steuben is somewhat deficient in his use of the English language. However, I assure you, this will not be a disadvantage. I am instructing him daily. The general is most joyful to make your acquaintance, sir.”

Von Steuben made a brief, curt smile, said something in German, and Washington felt awkward, did not enjoy interpreters.

“I was not aware General von Steuben did not . . . um, well, no matter. Thank you, Mr. Duponceau. Your presence is most welcome.”

There was a low voice behind him, and Hamilton said, “Sir, with your permission, does the general speak French?”

Washington looked at Duponceau, who said, “Most assuredly.”

Hamilton rode forward, said, “Sir, if you will allow, I can assist as well.”

“Very well. General von Steuben, this is Major Hamilton of my staff.”

Hamilton made a slight bow, said something in French, and von Steuben responded with a brief word, another polite smile. Washington said, “We should retire to the camp. General, if your men will accompany us.”

The parade began to move, von Steuben easing his horse up just behind Washington. It was more formality than Washington required, and he thought, Probably a European custom. I should tell him to ride beside me. He glanced back, saw Duponceau, and the man caught his look, moved quickly forward.

“Sir? May I be of service?”

The dog was now out in front of him, a prancing, delicate gait, then suddenly racing out into the trees, and von Steuben gave a quick shout, the dog quickly returning to the road. Washington could not help thinking of Charles Lee, the man’s fixation on dogs, noisy hounds accompanying him everywhere. But von Steuben bore no other resemblance to Charles Lee, and Washington put the unfortunate comparison aside, realizing Duponceau was beside him still.

“May I inquire . . . the breed of dog?”

“It is an Italian greyhound, sir. A special favorite of the general.”

“Greyhound. Very well. Uh, Mr. Duponceau, it is not necessary for the general to ride behind me. In this army, we prefer not to be so formal. Please ask if he would care to ride alongside.”

Duponceau eased back, and in a short moment von Steuben moved up next to him, said something in French. Washington heard a short laugh, and behind him Hamilton said, “My apologies, sir. Forgive my outburst.”

Washington looked at von Steuben, examined the man’s martial bearing, riding stiffly upright in the saddle, the amazing medals displayed on the man’s broad chest. The Prussian acknowledged the glance, a crisp nod, and Washington said, “Will someone kindly inform me what he said?”

Hamilton was close to him now, said, “He is honored, sir, to be riding beside the king of America.”

31. VON STEUBEN

F
EBRUARY 27, 1778

It was nothing like von Steuben had ever seen, drummers and musicians filling the cold air with discordant noise, the spectacle of what could have been so many vagabonds and highwaymen gathered into loose formations of order. But if the appearance of Washington’s army was a shocking surprise, the shock was deepened by the number of troops. When the cabins had emptied, and the lines formed, he could make an estimate of the strength of this army, the force that would soon be called upon to resume their fight. He didn’t know how many men were sick, or on leave, or how many had simply disappeared into the countryside. But in front of him now, shivering in respectful silence, stood no more than five thousand men.

He had been misinformed of the dress of the continental officer, and before he left France, he had adorned himself and his staff in coats that he soon learned bore an unfortunate resemblance to the scarlet facings of the British. He wisely accepted the stern advice from sympathetic militia officers, had secured a coat of blue, his staff doing the same. But a Continental uniform did not guarantee safe passage, nor a warm meal. Though they had received hospitality, they were also confronted by unexpected hostility, and the message had been made plain. This was a divided land, peopled by those whose loyalties lay clearly in two separate camps. It was his first surprise, that not every American believed in this Revolution, that from one farmhouse to the next might come a complete change in sympathy, some of these people still holding tightly to their allegiance to King George.

Von Steuben had left the Prussian army nearly fifteen years before, something the congress did not know, and something Franklin had neglected to mention in his letter. A man whose talents were distinctly military had endured difficult years as a civilian, and when von Steuben had recently sought another military position, King Frederick had advised him to travel to France. Every soldier knows that war creates opportunity, and despite the glowing portrait Ben Franklin had painted for the congress, von Steuben had gone to France merely in search of much-needed employment. Now, on the snowy plateau of Valley Forge, he had been received and celebrated as an honored guest.

As he studied the army he had come to serve, as he pored through the records Washington provided him, studied the structure and behavior of the Continental Army, his thoughts turned to those skills he had already mastered. Von Steuben understood more than any man in America the kind of discipline and training that was required to stand up against the might of the British.

Throughout that first inspection of the army, he had seen not only the tragedy of their dress, but the pride in their brotherhood. As he and Washington had ridden slowly through the formation, they had saluted him with raucous cheers. He knew that Washington had intended it to be a show for the Prussian. But von Steuben saw their faces, could see where the attention was focused, knew that their show of emotional enthusiasm was less for some Prussian soldier than for their commanding general. It was the intangible ingredient of every great army, the love of the troops for the leader they served. Despite his dismay at their appearance, he could feel that these men bore the hearts of soldiers, that strange and frightening force that drove men to march into the guns of their enemy. It was the first great challenge to building an effective army, and Washington had already put it behind them. To von Steuben, it was the first encouraging sign, the one piece of hope he could muster for the duty that still faced these men.

Organizing the departments, the accounting for supplies and munitions, the process of leave and enlistment, all had their priority. But papers and files and the staffing of offices could wait. Nothing was as important as the training of the men.

M
ARCH 1778

Von Steuben had assembled a hundred men, a select few chosen from each division, those whose sense of discipline had been made clear, either on the battlefield, or on the march. Most were junior officers, all were young, and von Steuben had marched them to a quiet patch of open ground, out away from the eyes of the rest of the camp.

They stood in a column of two, and he rode the horse down alongside them, tried not to notice the amazing lack of clothing. Behind him, the two American aides, Captains North and Walker, gave instructions, straightened the formation. He rode again to the front of the column, sat stiffly up on his horse, said to North, “Line of battle. With all haste.”

The shout went out, and the men began to shift their ground, from the vertical to the horizontal, the men gathering in a ragged crowd, then spreading to the sides. Within a minute or more they were facing him in two wide rows, the men pulling themselves close beside each other, eliminating any gaps in the line. They were looking at him now with satisfied smiles, and he showed no change in his expression, said, “Return to column of march.”

The men began to shift again, the lines collapsing into a stumbling mass, one man falling, knocking another man to the ground. The collisions were many, and the men down in the snow were laughing, one man launching a snowball at another. Gradually they shifted back into line, some of them laughing still, but coming to some kind of order.

“Gentlemen, if this was a battle, you would not be so concerned with repeating this move. You would all be dead, probably by the bayonet of the Hessians.”

The laughter had stopped, and he motioned to his aides, said, “Captain North, Captain Walker, assume a position at the head of each line.” He moved the horse around to the side, said, “You will follow the steps of the man in front of you. When he turns, he will pivot sharply. You will do the same. When he stops, you will stop. When he resumes his march, you will resume yours. Captains North and Walker will begin the shift. From column of march to line of battle. Now!”

The two aides made their turns, the men close behind, following. As more of the line made the turn, the crispness dissolved, the men at the rear still milling slowly past.

“No! Crisp! Pivot! By damned, we will do this again! No! Better I will show you!”

He climbed down from the horse, grabbed a musket from one of the men, glanced at the rusty bayonet, could see a coating of rust on the barrel as well.

“This is a disgrace! Before you complete these lessons, you will learn to care for your weapon. You will understand that a bayonet is not a tool for you to roast your supper!” He pulled the musket close to his chest. “Now, you will march . . . the order to halt! Now, the order to shift to column . . . so! Pivot . . . turn . . .
crisply
!”

He made the move again, swung the musket up to his chest, marched with a high stiff kick, prancing his way across the snowy field, a one-man army. He stopped now, stood stiffly, the musket straight down by his side.

“You are facing the enemy! You will wait for the order! The officer will give the order to load, thus!” He reached into his belt, pulled a nonexistent musket ball from an imaginary cartridge box, went through the motion of loading the musket.

“See? Now, the officer will order you to firing position!”

He dropped to one knee, raised the musket to his shoulder.

“Fire!
Powwww!
Now, the enemy is fleeing before you! The officer orders . . . charge bayonets!” He jogged forward now, the musket pointing straight out, made a high-pitched scream, “Aaaaaaaaaa!”

He stopped, slashed and cut the musket through the air, then suddenly stood at attention again, the musket by his side.

“The enemy is defeated! He has retired from the field! He could not stand up to your discipline!”

He realized he was exhausted, felt his breathing, sweat in his clothes, saw now embarrassment on the faces of his aides. Across the field, he heard the sound of cheering, saw that he had an audience, a thin line of men ringing the field. Now the cheering was close by, the men in his formation joining in, some bending over with laughter, men dropping to their knees. He looked down for a moment, thought, Yes, a comical sight, certainly. The only man on this field who knows what a soldier must do. He handed the musket to Walker, moved to the horse, North holding the reins. He climbed up, the laughter now growing quiet.

“This amuses you, gentlemen. Enjoy your moment of levity. But you will perform this drill a hundred times . . . a thousand times. When you leave this field, you will perform it in your dreams, you will march these steps in your mind while you eat, while you perform your toilet. When I release you from this field, you will return to your regiments, and you will perform this for your men,
you
will be the teacher. If you do not think of this as important, then you will not survive against your enemy. I assure you, General Howe’s soldiers have performed this exact drill, they can perform it in the darkest night, in a driving rain, and they can perform it perfectly as they die from your musket fire.” He paused, looked out over the faces, saw all eyes watching him. “Without drill, an army is nothing more than a mob. Without drill, a soldier is a musket with one ball. When that ball is discharged, there is nothing remaining. That is when you die by the bayonet. Have any of you ever participated in fisticuffs?”

There were low laughs, and several hands were raised.

“Yes, well, this very method of drill will assure your victory in a one-man war as well. Two men, shouting angrily at each other, then the blows come, a rapid uncontrolled flailing of arms and fists. Is that familiar?”

There were nods, small comments, mostly agreement.

“I would offer you an advantage. If you ever find yourself in the unfortunate circumstance of such combat, remember this drill. Why? When your opponent begins his wild assault, you take one step back, you wait for the moment, you might even endure his blows, the ridiculous meaningless pummeling, but you are skilled, you are disciplined, you will wait. You focus on your target, and you make one solid punch, you launch your disciplined assault right at his vulnerable point. With one sharp precise blow, you will defeat him. It is no different than facing a thousand men. It is the difference between a mob and an army. Discipline, patience, the carefully aimed maneuver, the perfectly placed blow. I assure you. General Howe knows this. King Frederick the Great knows this. Now . . .
you
know it. It is my duty to prevent you from forgetting it.”

He gave the hundred men the title of
inspectors
, and within days, the continuous drill had shaped them into the teachers he required them to be. It was not always smooth, and he was not always as controlled with his temper as he hoped to be, but even his fury was endearing. More, the inspectors were impressed by von Steuben’s willingness to embarrass himself, the prestigious officer who would soil his boots, shoulder a musket, kneel and crawl and march in their lines. As the first inspectors gained their skill, others began to line up, volunteering to become his next company of students, and thus, teachers themselves.

Though his focus remained tightly on the men close at hand, he could not avoid being distracted by the one blue-coated horseman who would appear occasionally among his audience. Washington did not come often, but come he did, and von Steuben would snap his men into line, the volume of his words just a bit louder, a discreet glance toward the big man on the white horse who would observe only awhile, then move away to other duties. After so many days von Steuben had come to understand that Washington was a man of few compliments, few outbursts of emotion. But if the words weren’t spoken, von Steuben had seen it in the man’s eyes, Washington’s quiet approval. The men in the drill knew, and now, their commander did as well. The army was indeed changing its shape.

He had made the acquaintance of all of Washington’s senior commanders, had felt the bonds between those for whom Washington seemed to have a special respect. Nathanael Greene came to headquarters many times, and those who dared to speak behind his back did so well out of the presence of Washington himself. Greene seemed to possess a Prussian’s impatience, and von Steuben was surprised to learn that the man had no background as a soldier. There were jealousies toward the man, some minor complaining that Washington relied on the Rhode Islander to an extreme. The complaints were few though, and even the men who groused quietly that Greene had not actually accomplished much on the battlefield seemed to believe that if the crisis came, he would be the man to emerge.

Von Steuben was making regular visits to headquarters, a guest for dinner nearly three times per week. The makeshift dining room was always crowded, a mingling of senior officers, staff, cooks and maids, and the wonderful company of the women. He had taken immediately to Martha, the quiet smiling woman, always polite, always gracious, a kind word at every turn. But her soft graciousness could not hide a hard core of authority, and von Steuben knew that the headquarters was not managed by the instruction of the commanding general. It was run by his wife.

He took his time reaching the headquarters, knowing he was still somewhat early for dinner. He enjoyed walking through the camp, appreciated the cordiality of the troops, something rare in European armies. As he stepped carefully down the snowy hill, his mind was focused, his latest project, a means of shortening the Prussian Manual at Arms, a version that might be distributed on paper to every company of men. He stepped along the icy banks of a small creek, thought, It must be brief, concise, something that can be learned in days, not months. Yet it must contain the essential formations, commands. He stopped, looked across the muddy snow to the house, the tall plume of gray smoke rising above. He could feel the softness under his boots, the snow melting, the creek more muddy than frozen. He studied the open ground, thought, Yes, it will be spring soon. He looked down toward the river, beyond the house, could see speckled patches of white and pink spread through the thickets of brush, the first buds, trees with names he didn’t know. He glanced down to the mud caking his boots, thought, That will be a problem. The roads will swallow an army, so no one will move for a while. But it will dry quickly. Already the warm air is coming. He looked down into the creek, the water moving in a narrow swift rush, driven by the thaw on the hill behind him.