Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (25 page)

“Why, then, are you fighting on the Loyalist side,” she asked, “if you feel that way?”

“Because this is where my duty calls me.”

“Yet Washington treated you justly, even with compassion.”

“That is the tragedy of all of this,” Allen sighed. “We are not that dissimilar. Take Captain André. Until tonight I felt a distance from him that could not be bridged. And yet we did find common ground here in this room.” He touched Franklin’s invention as he spoke. “We share the same blood and heritage. If we fracture apart, if the rebels join themselves to the French, what then? Some say Washington is another Cromwell or Caesar in the making. I cannot believe that. But those around him, perhaps yes. If we stay with the king
we can be a nation secured. The waters my brother was willing to wade into are driven by passions. Perhaps his dream will come true if they win, but I fear not.”

“But if your fears are ill founded?”

“Then that will be a miracle,” Allen replied.

“Don’t you believe in miracles?”

He looked back at her and smiled.

“Do I detect something of the rebel in you, Miss Risher?”

She arched her back slightly and looked at him defiantly.

“And so what if you do?”

He laughed softly.

“Your secret is safe with me. For after all, it could be said we are kin by marriage, are we not?”

She relaxed and smiled.

“So my secret is evident?” she offered.

“I think more than one lady here tonight is at heart a rebel.”

“More than a few,” she replied. “And still more than a few will cheer for the winning side when all is done.”

“And you?”

“The Shippens are family friends, which is why I am here. She is only sixteen, and her parents insisted that a friend must attend to her. So this old spinster of twenty-four is here as a result.”

“You could have stayed home.”

She laughed softly.

“My parents have been Loyalists from the start. I have a brother with the Royal Navy. But, if I might be so bold, Allen, there is a bountiful table in the next room and my parents did urge me that a meal in exchange for a few dances was not degrading for a lady and might help insure her position if this army is here to stay.”

She looked at him, eyes suddenly cold. “Or do you see that as the selling of myself?”

“Never,” Allen cried, “I meant no insult.”

She forced a smile.

“Well, that pie is good,” she offered.

“I’ll try some later. But you did not answer my question. Are you a rebel at heart?”

She laughed softly.

“What do you think?”

“I think you are.”

“That is bold of you, sir, to think you know a woman’s heart, and when we have been but barely introduced.”

He blushed and she laughed softly. He dared to look back at her. Her blue eyes were radiant, her figure slender, and he remembered that at his cousin’s wedding, wisps of blonde hair had peeked out from beneath her wig. He did not dare to admit how the memory of her had haunted him afterwards, how he had cursed himself as a fool for not having the bravery to ask for a dance, while his innocent, fumbling brother of but fifteen had gone up to her, she at least five years his senior, and begged for a dance.

And now to see her again, tonight, years later.

“Do you think less of me for staying with the king?” he asked nervously.

“No, of course not. You went where you felt duty called you. But, still, is it not all so tragic, after all? Your brother gone. My cousin with child not sure if the father of that child is alive. Even those officers in that next room, laughing, cheering—so many of them are torn from families and loved ones.”

They paused as if listening. André had finished with his poem of praise for the naval captain, and a lively dance was now taking place.

“And more than a few of them, as well, absolute rakes, I dare say. A woman can barely walk on Market Street without being accosted.”

“Has anyone been trouble for you?” he asked protectively.

“Would you fight a duel for me if I said yes?”

He was flustered, but nodded his head, and she laughed. “Oh, Mr. Allen van Dorn, you really are a provincial.”

He was not sure how to react.

“Now eat that pie before it is too cold. I daresay there are thousands up in Valley Forge tonight who would give a month’s pay for such a repast.”

She took the plate and offered it to him. Unable to resist, he did as ordered. As he ate, she sat silent, watching him. He was too embarrassed to stop until he had carried out her order.

Finished with the pie, he set the plate back and looked over at her.

“So tell me about this Mozart that you and Captain André so admire.”

He rambled on for several minutes until sensing that she was simply being polite. But he was now somewhat lost as he launched into the brilliance of the mathematics of the works of Bach, which lacked this new soul of music that Mozart was creating.

“Think you can play it?” she asked.

“Mozart?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure. Let me see.” He straightened himself, turned back to the instrument, pressed the pedals, and, feeling that Franklin’s device was ready, pressed a key. Again that soft, strange sound.

“Can I try?”

“But of course!”

He continued to press the pedals as she randomly touched the keyboard, exclaiming with childlike delight at what she created.

A bit of a tune started and he was surprised by her audacity. It was “Chester,” the marching song of the rebels.

She played but a few bars and then sat back, looking at him with a smile.

“So you are a rebel!” he said softly.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I just like the tune. Now to the Mozart,” she said. Trying to remember what André had played, he gently touched the keyboard, worked out a few chords, and began. After a few attempts she joined him, the two playing together.

They were so absorbed in their joint effort that neither of them noticed John André, who had been standing in the doorway ever since she had played the few chords of “Chester.” Nor did they see his sad smile as he turned and went back to join the party in the other room.

Nor did André see Allen’s right hand and her left brushing together as they played, Allen trembling with a thrill of delight as they touched.

Near Valley Forge
January 27, 1778

“Do we all clearly understand General Washington’s orders?”

Anthony Wayne paced down the line of men. They were ragged, filthy. They stank and looked like scarecrows, but most of them were grinning as Mad Anthony continued down the line.

“It’s about time. We’re with you, General, now let’s go!” someone cried, and a cheer went up.

Wayne grinned, stalked back to the front of the column, and mounted, motioning for them to follow his lead. When the dozen wagons in the column, each pulled by a team of four bony horses, bogged down in the mud of the road within a hundred yards after they set off, the hundred infantry accompanying him put their shoulders to the wheels and tailgates of the wagons to force them along.

A typical late January thaw had set in, temperature well into the forties. Fortunately, with the sky clear and no threat of rain for at least the next few days, they could yet move forward. Rain now would render the roads entirely useless. Wayne’s first target had been carefully chosen. He had set a goal for this command, a command he had never wanted, but now, stuck with the task, by God, he would fulfill it.

They dropped down into a gentle hollow, a bit of morning mist clinging above the muddy, swollen creek. Men had to push and shove the wagons through the mud on the opposite slope and back up the hill. Still he heard little complaining, the troops seemingly feeling as if they were almost on holiday.

Gaining the crest, Wayne looked back. After more than five weeks, the encampment at Valley Forge was taking on the semblance of an actual military
post and not just a gathering of beggars. Regimental streets lined with cabins were spread across the upper plain. Orders for this day were to save on firewood and to let fires in each cabin die down until dusk.

The last of the shelters were supposed to be finished by the end of the week. Men focused their limited energies on corduroying roads with saplings and brush. Those not assigned to firewood duty or excused by illness—which now afflicted more than a third of the men in the ranks—were to fall out for fatigue duty to build the fortified lines guarding all approaches, the battery positions atop Mount Joy and Mount Misery, and the bridge to their rear across the Schuylkill, which would be their bolt hole if ever attacked.

The prospect of that threat, at least for the next several days, was nil. At daily officers’ call this morning, at dawn, the general had, as was his custom, reviewed the reports of the day before. He had included, in general outline—for he never revealed his private sources—the latest intelligence from Philadelphia, New York, and elsewhere. There were no indications of any planned movement. No reports of officers in Philadelphia calling for last-minute repairs of equipment, unusual movements of their patrols, or the telltale preparation of three days of marching rations, reshoeing of horses, and the issuance of fresh cartridge and ball. The latest intelligence was about a party hosted by General Grey to honor some Royal Navy captain who had brought in a captured American ship laden with much-needed supplies for the Continental Army, now to be used or simply burned by the British in Philadelphia. The mere mention of Grey’s name of course triggered a grumbling reaction from Wayne, who had personally sworn to face the man one on one before this war was over and cut his heart out. Outrage at British atrocities in Paoli by Grey’s command still rankled that deeply in Wayne’s mind.

Besides, given the thaw of the last few days, it was one thing to move a dozen wagons and a hundred men in this quagmire. But an army? They’d bog down into utter chaos and collapse in less than three miles. The first troops to pass would make the roads impassable for the rest of the army.

The wind blew fair on their faces, providing even a touch of warmth in the air. More than a few of the men had stripped off their foot wrappings, which would otherwise have turned into heavy, clogged weights, and ventured ahead barefooted in the mud, one of the men exclaiming with a certain joy when he hit the warm droppings of the horses laboring ahead of the wagons.

After a steady hour of marching, they reached the banks of the river, passing through the small village of Phoenixville. Word of their approach had spread before them; the houses of more than a few farms they passed along
the way were boarded up tight, owners having fled, taking with them their cattle and supplies, leaving behind but a servant or two to keep an eye on the place. In Phoenixville the few shops were boarded shut as well, except for a tavern of a known patriot, who stood outside his doorway, waving to Wayne at his approach. A couple of the tavern keeper’s sons rolled out a few small barrels of beer, and the gesture was met with huzzahs from the men and a promise from Wayne to those marching with him that, at midday, when their task was completed, they could each have a fair portion. He did a quick calculation. The barrels looked to be about ten gallons total. At a gallon per ten men, it would be just under a pint per soldier, and that would be fine. They would avoid the trouble that might have been caused if it had been rum instead.

The road ahead was fairly level, bordered by orchards, pastures, and fields of corn stubble and winter wheat that shone green in the morning light. Farmers watched apprehensively as they passed. Most of the men stood stoic and silent. A few, though, came down to greet the troops. A woman came down bearing a large basket heavy with warm biscuits, but not enough for all. Wayne ordered that the offering go to the lads who needed it the most, and the woman received three rousing cheers as they passed.

She beamed with delight, tears in her eyes. “My son, Jimmy Ferguson, is with the First Continental Foot, and you tell that rascal to come home and see his mother,” she cried. “Can you do that, General?”

Wayne nodded, and made a pretense of turning to one of his aides, telling him to note the boy’s name, find him, and give him a pass for three days. With that, the woman burst into tears of gratitude and came out from behind the gate. She made to kiss Wayne’s hand.

“Madam, it is I who should kiss your hand in gratitude for your son’s patriotic service,” he replied solemnly, averting his eyes.

He rode on, noting the farm, marking it for later. He recalled the boy’s name and had not the heart to tell her that her son was on the roll of the dead, the flux having taken him a week ago. He would send one of his staff back later to break the news to her.

They pressed on, along the banks of the Schuylkill, gently rolling farmland, perhaps the richest in all the Americas, fertile with topsoil six feet deep in places. The river in the spring ran full with shad; apple trees bent nearly double in the autumn with their offerings. Connecticut had been good land, well tended by hardworking Yankee farmers, but here, all one needed to do was cast seed upon the ground and, four months later, bring in the bounty.

And that bounty is what he now sought, the first target in his new command.

Boys came out from houses, circling the men, laughing, playing at being soldiers. The men tolerated them with smiles. More than a few of the older ones in his ranks, thinking of sons—even, for some, grandsons—were visibly moved. A couple fought tears as they patted the boys on the heads, allowing them to play with their equipment for a few moments, to carry their heavy muskets or to wear a bedraggled cap.

The boys were indication enough to him of what he should do next. Excited boys could spread word faster, it seemed, than any mounted courier. Wayne now ordered his few staff and the small detachment of mounted dragoons to gallop ahead, outracing word of their approach if it were still possible to do so.

The men clattered off with delighted shouts, mud spraying up from their mounts as the rest of the column of infantry staggered on behind them. A couple of the men began to grumble that they had been marching for nearly three hours without a break, but a look back by Wayne stilled their complaints. There was really no serious complaining, though, just typical grumbling, for they all knew the reward ahead.

The day slowly increased in warmth—another five to ten degrees and it would be springlike. The warming breeze out of the southwest blew at their backs, the sun baking away a bit of the moisture on the road so that the going became easier, though the deep frost from earlier in January was still working its way up out of the ground.

At last he saw his goal for today. His half-dozen mounted dragoons and staff were out on the road, one of the men with sword drawn. As ordered, the rest were waiting for his arrival. He nudged his mount and cantered ahead of the column to join his advance guard.

It was Johansson’s mill, one of the most prosperous on the midreaches of the Schuylkill River. He and several of his staff had ridden up here several days earlier, as if heading toward Reading, and had studied it carefully in passing. But they had not stopped—to avoid arousing suspicion. Careful inquiries at a tavern just south of Pottstown, six miles farther on, revealed that, though not an overt Tory, old Johansson kept his cards close as to his loyalties.

Millers were men with whom all farmers had a relationship of both love and hate. For grinding the farmers’ wheat and corn, millers traditionally charged one-tenth of the crop. If he had enough clients, in a month or more in the autumn a miller could garner far more from twenty farmers than all their hard labor of plowing, hoeing, weeding, harvesting, and threshing would
provide for any one farmer in a year. Every one of them doubted a miller’s weights when it came time to measure back the ground corn, wheat, barley, and rye. None had ever seen a penniless miller, and more than a few farmers were forced to turn to them for loans of cash when times were hard. This was not to say that all millers were bad sorts—more than a few were held in esteem as men of Christian charity. If a farmer had had a bad year, the miller would keep but a fraction for himself, and what he did keep would usually then go to a local pastor to be given to the poor.

Johansson, though, was spoken of in the tavern as a man known for a hard bargain. It was said that if you turned your back while he was measuring out the grain and held up a mirror, you’d see his thumb on the scales.

However, there was no denying that he was a hardworking man, having built his mill nearly forty years before. The enterprise was now largely run by sons and grandsons. A sluice into the Schuylkill fed water into a millpond, which had enough drop via a wooden pipe made of barrels cobbled and tarred together to feed two overshot wheels.

As he rode up and dismounted, Anthony could hear the workings of the machinery within. Waterwheels connected to drive shafts, which in turn rotated two stone gristmills. Raw corn, wheat, whatever was to be ground that day would be unloaded from wagons via an upper ramp, shoveled in by Johansson’s ever laboring sons and grandsons, down into a chute to the grindstones, with a near endless stream of flour raining out to be bagged and loaded aboard wagons at the lower level. So powerful were the headwaters of the mill that in the off-season, when flour was not to be made, mechanical gears would be shifted and power diverted to operate a sawmill to turn out clapboard for house siding and floorboards. It even had a fine-toothed saw that could cut chestnut and walnut into wainscoting for paneling.

It was quite a prosperous industry that Johan Johansson ran. For lack of a better choice for this morning’s operation, given the rumors of his, at best, neutral leanings, Anthony had decided he would start here with his task, heading out far into the countryside beyond Valley Forge rather than beginning closer to home.

As he rode up, the old man was outside his mill, glaring defiantly at the dragoons whom Anthony had ordered to do nothing more than surround the establishment until his arrival.

Gray beard quivering, Johansson stormed over to Anthony.

“What, sir, is the meaning of this?” he cried. “These ruffians ride up, they even drive off one of my customers in a panic! What is it you are doing?”

He pointed up the road toward Pottstown, where a heavily laden wagon was retreating, the farmer aboard standing, lashing his horses onward. The back of the oversized wagon was piled high with unground wheat.

“Sergeant Olsen, fetch that wagon back here,” Wayne announced calmly, and with a grin the sergeant galloped off. Then he turned his attention back to Johansson.

“I am General Anthony Wayne of the Continental Army, currently encamped at Valley Forge,” he began.

“Mad Anthony, is it?” Johansson sniffed, looking up at him defiantly. Anthony forced a smile.

It was a nickname he rather liked, and if that was how this miller wished to address him, so be it; it would help in the dealings he was now embarking upon.

“Yes, I am Mad Anthony Wayne, and I am here to requisition supplies for the Continental Army.”

“The devil you say,” Johansson snapped, though Wayne could see the man looking nervously back down the road toward the approaching wagons.

Anthony dismounted, brushing the mud off his legs, and approached the man, who towered above him. He looked to be in his midsixties, but his shoulders and neck were those of a bull. Clearly a man who had labored for years at his mill, shouldering hundredweight bags, carved out his own grindstones, built the dams and sluices to divert the river both to and away from his mill, so that in those times of flood that so often wiped out many a miller, he could be up the following morning and, just by cleaning out the sluiceways of mud and flotsam, back at work. He had every reason to be proud of his life’s work, and in a way Anthony pitied him for what had to be done. But pity would not stay his hand when he thought of the men back at Valley Forge.