Read Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Online
Authors: Newt Gingrich,William R. Forstchen,Albert S. Hanser
Tags: #War
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (2 page)
Washington understood that modern warfare required very steady infantry, disciplined volley fire, and strong artillery support. That combination required training and more training.
While Washington understood the need, he lacked the principles for training and the ability to train. That is where von Steuben became invaluable. There is a remarkable subtlety in what von Steuben did. He did not try to transfer rigid European systems designed for conscript armies. He intuitively understood that Americans had to learn faster and had to understand and participate instead of being coerced. The result was an approach that was learnable and which combined intense training with realistic goals.
By Monmouth, Washington’s army had survived the crucible of Valley Forge and emerged with a level of training that enabled them for once to fight the British Army in the open and win.
The French entry into the war forced the British government in London to reinforce their troops in the sugar colonies in the Caribbean (which were far more profitable and, to the British, more important than the American mainland). That transfer of troops from Philadelphia to the West Indies forced the British Army to abandon Philadelphia and retreat to New York.
During their retreat, the unthinkable happened. They collided with a disciplined and determined American Army. At Monmouth, the survivors of the long Valley Forge winter got their revenge against the troops who had enjoyed Philadelphia comforts throughout the winter. The result was a decisive British defeat and a huge increase in American morale and in Washington’s personal prestige.
Washington is at the heart of America’s success and of our definition of ourselves as a country of freedom under the rule of law. By virtue of his honor, dignity, and integrity, Washington attracted an extraordinary group of men around him, including Nathanael Greene, Anthony Wayne, Alexander Hamilton, and, of course, the allies already mentioned.
Through defeat, despair, deprivation, political intrigue, endless frustrations, and a host of problems we can barely imagine in our modern, comfortable world, Washington behaved as the leader of freedom’s cause. His being—not his intellect, not his speechmaking, not his personality—but, rather, his very being as a force of disciplined righteous patriotism made success possible.
There was no doubt in Washington’s mind what the struggle was all about. It was about freedom under the rule of law.
Washington’s favorite play was Joseph Addison’s
Cato
. It is the story of a man who loves freedom so much that he sacrifices his son and himself rather than bend to Caesar’s will. Washington never tired of the play. It was also clear that he saw himself in that tradition. He would rather have died than given in to British tyranny.
It is our hope that this story of freedom emerging from difficult times will inspire our generation to do our duty to protect the rule of law and reassert the classic provisions of American liberty.
Nothing we face is as difficult as Valley Forge. We have no excuse for not serving our country and dedicating ourselves to the cause of freedom. That is the real message of this book.
Near Paoli, PA
10:00 PM, September 20, 1777
Battle of Paoli
“Fix bayonets!”
The order was whispered hoarsely. Lieutenant Allen van Dorn, a Loyalist from Trenton, of the rebellious colony of New Jersey, was in a column of more than a thousand British light infantry, arrayed in a formation of company front by column. He could hear the order echoing softly behind him, followed by the cold, chilling sound of long bayonets pulled from scabbards, then locked on to the muzzles of Brown Bess muskets.
He caught a glimpse of General Charles Grey as the blanket of clouds, concealing the moon, parted for a moment. Tall, slender, and supremely fit, Grey’s presence was sensed—even in the cover of darkness. His whispered words carried self-confidence and command. The battle plan was his. This fight would be his, and Allen sensed that this man reveled in the moment.
Allen, serving as one of the scouts for the attack, observed Grey from a respectful distance. With soldierly ardor, the general addressed the knot of officers surrounding him.
“I want every man checked yet again,” Grey hissed sharply. “Flints are to be removed from all weapons except officers’ sidearms. If any enlisted man disobeys and fires his weapon, I will personally flog him. If any of you discharge your pistols before the attack is well joined, by God I will not only flog you, I will see you broken to the ranks and sent back to En gland in disgrace.
“Do we understand each other?”
There was a muffled chorus of assents.
“Rejoin your commands and await the order to advance. Once this column begins to move, guide on the unit in front of you. Keep the formation tight. Do not lose contact with the line in front of you. Once the attack is launched, fan your men out as we discussed earlier and then in with the bayonet and finish the bastards. No one is to escape. No one!
“Rejoin your men.”
The officers scattered and dispersed into the blackness. The clattering of a sword sheath broke the unnerving stillness.
“Who was that?” Grey snarled.
There was a momentary pause.
“Captain Neilson, sir I, he has fallen,”
“You are relieved of command, sir. Stay to the rear. I will deal with you tomorrow.”
There was no reply.
“Officers, drop your sword sheaths,” Grey added.
The order had been given earlier, but some were reluctant to comply, their scabbards inlaid with gold were worth a pretty penny. Neilson would pay far more in terms of shame.
Grey turned to face the men gathered around Allen.
“You men know your orders.”
Each man quickly whispered his orders, to deploy to the left of the flank, to the right, to move ahead and secure the several farmsteads in their path of advance. Finally, it was Allen’s turn.
“I am to stay with the prisoner, sir, to insure he does not try to escape.”
“And if he gives false directions?”
Allen hesitated.
“I will kill him myself,” came a whispered reply. It was muttered by a captain who had beloved and esteemed recently joined their ranks. John André, was as a soldier, a poet, a duelist, and above all else, a gentleman with courage. As part of a prisoner exchange, he was recently assigned to act as a liaison for Grey during the attack.
“I will see to it, sir,” Allen interjected.
He looked over at the prisoner, a civilian blacksmith who had come to their camp earlier in the day to report that a division of rebel troops, under the command of Anthony Wayne, was encamped near Paoli Tavern. That was already known, but the blacksmith carried the additional information that the men were demoralized after the drubbing they had received at the Battle of Brandywine, fought nine days ago. He reported that many were grumbling
about deserting, cursing Washington and Wayne. Drunkenness was rampant and his own personal grievance was that they had looted his barn, insulted his wife, and threatened to loot and burn his forge. He added that they were keeping poor watch; the men were drinking gin and corn liquor even while on picket duty. That was enough to spur Grey to action.
The blacksmith, however, never expected the next turn of events. He had been “volunteered” to lead this midnight attack column, and had openly wept when ordered to do so, crying that he was only a civilian, had done his duty to the Crown, and should be let go.
The burly man was trembling, stifling back sobs as the soldiers around him prepared to go forward.
Allen went to his side.
“You heard the general,” he whispered.
“Why? I did my duty.”
“Listen to me,” Allen whispered. “There is no escaping it now. You are in this to the end. Once the fighting starts I will let you go, but if you try to bolt, my orders are to run you through.”
He hesitated, looking over his shoulder at Captain André.
“And if I don’t, he will.”
“You’re not one of them,” the blacksmith whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“You sound like you’re from Jersey.”
Allen did not reply for a moment. The man had a good ear for accents and guessed right.
“Yes. Trenton.”
“Why are you with them?”
“I could ask why are you with us,” Allen snapped.
“I was only doing my duty. I am not a soldier, though.”
“Well, I am.”
“If my neighbors see me with you tonight, they’ll burn me out.”
“Not if we win,” Allen replied coldly, knowing it to be true.
With Brandywine and the utter rout of the rebel army, political feelings in the countryside around Philadelphia were in upheaval. More than a few were already Loyalists, and in the days before the fight, as some of the undisciplined rabble serving with Washington took to foraging for food, feelings had shifted even more. After the victory, many were now hanging the Union Jack in front of their homes.
For Allen, it was a source of intense inner confusion. He had joined the
Loyalist cause a year ago, after his brothers Jonathan and James had run off to join the rebels, when the war was being fought near New York. James had deserted and was now back home running the family tannery and store. Jonathan, though, poor Jonathan had stayed with the rebels and died the evening after the battle for Trenton.
Taken prisoner along with the Hessians, Allen had been allowed by the rebels to help carry his brother back to their encampment…and held him as he died from exhaustion and pneumonia. By his side was their childhood friend, Peter Wellsley.
The following day, Peter took Allen to General Washington and appealed for his release in exchange for the sacrifice of his brother.
Allen was now one of the very few serving the Crown who had accompanied Washington, talked with him, and taken a measure of the man. Though he could never embrace Washington’s cause, he nevertheless could respect the man for his personal integrity. Washington readily granted Wellsley’s appeal, saying that it was a fair exchange to a family who had lost a son that had served with valor.
Washington tried to press him for some details of British positions, which Allen respectfully refused to answer. The general immediately desisted, though he offered the opportunity to join their cause, which Allen refused as well. The general had then made him swear that he would reveal nothing of what he had seen or heard while within their ranks and let him go.
A week later, when the rebels returned to Trenton, Allen left his family behind, rejoined the ranks, and reported to General Grey. Grey asked the same questions Washington had, and again he refused to answer, saying he had given his oath. Rather than enrage the supposedly hot-blooded Grey, the general clapped him on the shoulder, saying he carried the proper honor of an Englishman and assigned him to his staff as a liaison to Loyalists.
So now he stood, keeping careful watch on a terrified blacksmith who was in way over his head with this war. He had, without doubt, slipped through the lines to try and curry favor, assuming that in another day his village would be occupied…. He had never bargained for this.
“For your own sake,” Allen whispered, “you better guide us correctly. Are you sure you can do that?”
“I grew up here, I know every field and woodlot like the back of my hand,” the man whispered in reply, voice trembling.
“For God’s sake, don’t try to play false or run.”
He nodded back to the regular British officer who was huddled with Grey.
“That man hates colonials and will run you through like a dog if you try to take off.”
The terrified blacksmith did not reply. André stepped away from Grey to join the two.
“Forward, and you better lead us straight in,” André announced.
“He will,” Allen offered.
The three set off and seconds later André could hear the whispered command for the column to follow.
No matter how hard they tried, a thousand men stepping off into an attack could not be totally silent. There was a clatter as someone apparently tripped or dropped his musket, muted curses, and the sound of boots scuffing across the stubble of the recently mowed hay field.
Light infantry formed most of the column, supported by a second column behind them, the famed and rightly feared Scottish Black Watch.
Crossing the open field, the blacksmith led them down into a hollow. Fording a shallow stream a dozen feet wide and only several inches deep, the column slowed for a moment as the advance churned the ground into a morass, slowing the rear of the attacking force. They moved by the oblique to the right, angling across the next field and then experienced several moments of confusion as the attacking force made its way through a farmer’s woodlot, which the blacksmith stated would conceal their advance.
Allen looked back over his shoulder several times. Light from the rising moon occasionally broke through the thick veil of scudding clouds, revealing the men as they advanced. He could only hope that the pickets were indeed drunk or foolish enough to have campfires. Gazing into a fire for just a few seconds would blind a man’s night vision for several minutes afterward.
The blacksmith muttered to himself, repeating the Lord’s Prayer over and over again.
“Be quiet there,” André finally groaned, “or you won’t need to pray, you will be able to explain it to God personally.”
Emerging out of the woodlot, Allen could see a glow on the horizon, easily recognized by any soldier as the…campfires of an opposing line.
“Where are their pickets?” It was General Grey, who arrived to join them.
“The what?” the blacksmith gasped.
“Their scouts, the guards!” Allen hissed.
“Over there, I think. I saw them posted on the road.”
He waved vaguely to their right.
“Just keep moving, but, by God, if this is a trap, you will be the first to die,” Grey snapped, and turned back.
“Skirmishers and dragoons forward, deploy fifty yards ahead,” Grey whispered, pointing toward the glowing fires, and seconds later a swarm of light infantry sprinted forward in advance of the main column.
They were now halfway across the open field. The clouds parted again, illuminating a low rise ahead. It was the perfect location for forward pickets to be in position. Grey caught glimpses of the dozen or so mounted dragoons, crouched low in their saddles, cresting the rise.
And then the darkness was cut by the flash of a musket—a snap of light followed a second later by two more, and the crack of rifle fire echoed across the field.
“In on them, my lads!” Grey roared. “In and after them!”
“If this is a trap…,” Andre repeated, glaring at the blacksmith who stood stock-still and terrified.
The column behind them broke into an exhilarating run. Allen turned back and saw the glint of leveled bayonets and a wall of men charging toward them.
“Come on,” Allen cried. He dared to lay a hand on a superior officer, and push him forward.
André hesitated for only an instant, his sword poised as if to stab the blacksmith, but then turned to join the charge.
“You, for God’s sake, lie down!” Allen cried, shoving the blacksmith forward. “Just lie down and claim later…”
He didn’t have time to explain further or to offer advice for this poor soul, who, if found out, would likely find himself at the end of a rope if the rebels won, and at the end of a rope as well if he had played false to the Crown.
The man collapsed, almost as if shot, and lay on the ground quivering. Allen felt a measure of pity as he left the man behind, racing to keep ahead of the wall of bayonets. Reaching the low crest, he saw the bodies of the unfortunate advance pickets; their campfire, dug into the ground in an attempt at concealment, was still glowing hot. Several of the light infantry skirmishers were bayoneting the bodies, one still alive and shrieking for mercy.
The column reached the top of the hill and began to spread out as ordered. From this position, the men had an unobstructed view of the enemy encampment directly ahead, along the edge of the woods. The men sprang to their feet in confusion, clearly silhouetted by the flames of their campfires. As if
with one voice, the advancing column, let loose with wild shouts of battle lust. The sharp battle cries of the Black Watch were terrifying, even to Allen.
The charge swept straight into the rebel camp and the slaughter began.