Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (31 page)

It was heaven-sent: dry ash and birch that was easy to cut and split, burned hot, and left a good bed of hot ashes to warm them through the night.

In spite of the cold gusts, Peter had his uniform jacket off, the vest, such a lovely gift from Mrs. Hewes, unbuttoned. As others finished their meals, some drew off their jackets, removed their shirts, and began the ritual of louse hunting, carefully going through the seams, a find greeted with a loud exclamation of delight, the victim then crushed between dirty fingernails.

The Robinson twins, each stripped to the waist, were examining each other, poking through each other’s hair and armpits, their efforts greeted by more than a few ribald comments about where else they should search for the ever-elusive foes.

Putnam, putting a plate down in front of one of the stoves, suggested a louse race, but he had no takers, men now too intent on their own labors after a hard day, some already taking their cushions, fetching a raggedy blanket from their kit hung up by their sleeping stalls, and just simply flopping down near the stoves and quickly falling asleep.

A few took out crumpled sheets of paper from their haversacks or jacket pockets and, beneath the flickering light of a couple of tallow lamps, read yet again letters that had already been read a hundred times or more…for no post had arrived other than those bearing official dispatches since they had come to this place more than six weeks ago. Others fetched a precious sheet of paper for which they had paid two dollars Continental, a fifth of a month’s pay, and, using the ink Peter had concocted, laboriously set to work with letters for home, a couple opening small diaries to note down the events of the day: “Mrs. Washington arrived. We got a quarter gill of corn whiskey to celebrate. Storm today, much snow. Still no word of home and if Barbara and the baby are safe from the smallpox…”

Others drew out small pocket Bibles or a bit of newspaper and began to read, while off in a corner the gamblers were at work with a tattered deck of cards.

Peter sat silent before one of the stoves, the sides glowing with a soft, shimmering heat, as darkness settled outside, the storm still howling through the eaves. He was lost in thought.

Home. What day is it? Friday? He wasn’t sure. Maybe Saturday. Oh, if Saturday, that was the night his mother would always bake some pies and lay up food so as not to have to cook on the Sabbath. In autumn and winter there would always be an apple pie or cobbler drenched in fresh cream. Father would then go to the parlor to read the Bible or, if the post had arrived in time, the latest news from New York and Philadelphia and the world beyond.

Jonathan would often come over, and they would sit on the floor by the
fireplace playing chess when boys, though as they got older sometimes the Olsons or even the van Broklins would be having a social, and if so they would be given permission to go. Sometimes there was a songfest at the Methodist church, which his parents didn’t hold with; but they turned a blind eye because the entire village knew he was more than a bit smitten with Sarah Treadwell, daughter of the preacher. Of course, he would have to return home before nine. He and Jonathan…

Jonathan. Jonathan was dead.

He stared at the glowing stove.

Just a day of rest here, warm, dry, a day of full rations…you would be alive, my friend, my beloved friend.

He sat silent, staring at the glowing stove. Jonathan sleeping in his grave in the cold ice-and snow-covered ground at McConkey’s Ferry, and yet I am still here.

I am here. I could be home in Trenton now. Hell, nearly everyone else on this night was home except for us few fools. Jonathan’s brothers? James, damn him, was most likely grown fat by now, warm by his fireplace—laughing, most likely, at the thought of our misery. Allen? At least he had the stomach to stay on the side he had sworn loyalty to, damn him. Several months back, a letter had come from Sarah, all formal, of course, since her father had without doubt read it before allowing it to be posted, but she had said that there was rumor that Allen had been promoted and was now on the staff of a British general named Grey.

The implication was obvious. Her father was a Tory. If only she had set her cap for Allen, she could perhaps be receiving the attention of a proper officer, one most likely safe and warm in Philadelphia this night.

Allen, my God, Allen, you actually threw in with the butcher of Paoli? He found it hard to believe that Jonathan’s brother would have sunk to such an extreme.

And I sit here. Trenton not a day’s walk away, or the same as Philadelphia, where it was reported that if a man turned his coat, came through the lines, and signed the oath of allegiance to the king he would be given a warm meal, the king’s shilling, and a warm uniform free of vermin.

“Peter?”

He looked up. It was Sergeant Harris.

“Didn’t you hear me, lad?”

“What?”

“I told you five minutes ago, change of the watch.”

“Oh.”

Harris was holding his cartridge box and musket.

Reluctantly standing up, extending his hands for a few more seconds over the blazing heat to warm them up, he buttoned his vest, pulled on his jacket, buttoned it tight, then ducked out under the awning of tents. The temperature on the far side was already below freezing as he went to his stall, where he put on his blanket cape, the dampness in it frozen solid. He inwardly cursed himself—he should have thought to dry it out by the fire earlier. Too late now. Putting on his broken-down hat, he took a strip of canvas and tied the hat down tight under his chin, the canvas covering his ears and cheeks.

Harris was over by the door of the barn, handing him his cartridge box, checking to make sure the outer and inner flaps were sealed tight.

“I checked your load and the pan is dry,” Harris said, as he handed the musket over, an oiled cloth wrapped around the lock.

The sergeant cracked the door open and quickly slipped out, closing the door so it would not let in too much of the wintry blast.

Peter took a deep breath. It was painful. Freezing cold, wind driving the snow into his face as he followed Harris to the front door of the headquarters house, where a lone sentry stood. Since no one was watching, he was hunched over against the blast, stamping his feet, musket resting against the doorsill, slapping his hands together to try and keep out the frost.

“Private Sanders! Is that any way to keep watch?” Harris roared.

The poor sentry looked up at him, grabbed his musket, and tried to assume a position of attention.

Harris went up to him.

“Your report?”

“Nothing, Sergeant.”

“That’s not the way to do it and you know it!”

“Sergeant of the guard. No one has entered or departed since I assumed watch,” Sanders announced, teeth chattering. “All quiet, Sergeant.”

“That’s better. Now dash inside. Unless the boys stole it while I’ve been out, there’s salt pork, and even some warm cider.”

Sanders made a feeble gesture of salute and shuffled off for the barn.

“You think you can stand it?” Harris asked. “It is your turn, you know.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Harris patted him on the shoulder.

“Just two hours, lad. I’ll keep a spot open for you by the stove.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

Harris patted him again and then wasted no time retreating to the barn, its outline dim in the driving storm, which blasted full into Peter’s face.

Peter stood silent. After a few minutes the cold had seeped into his damp boots, each blast of wind in his face sending shivers through him.

He could, at times, hear laughter from within. Snatches of a song caught his attention. It was a hymn. Then another. In the past, before Mrs. Greene and now Mrs. Washington arrived, if there was singing it was usually the songs of soldiers. That had changed and the sound of it warmed his heart.

Jonathan was dead. Sarah was in Trenton. Allen was most likely in Philadelphia, warm and content this night while I freeze out here.

But at least, for the moment, the echo of the hymn warmed his soul.

The evening’s entertainment passed with warmth and friendliness. Martha was back by his side, and he could see the delight in the smiles of his young staff and older comrades for his happiness. At least here, at this moment, the world felt at ease.

The meal gradually broke up, Martha insisting that she help General Greene’s wife with cleaning up alongside Billy Lee. The house was warm, his stomach full, and he now felt a great unease.

Excusing himself from the last few well-wishers, he went into the foyer and drew on his cape and hat.

“Sir?”

It was Laurens.

“Just going out for a walk.”

“Sir, should I call the guard detail?”

He shook his head. Laurens was obsessed with the fear that a British agent, an assassin, might be lurking somewhere, and he was always on guard. Washington himself had long ago taken something of a Presbyterian view of such matters…if fated to die that way, that was fate, and he would not live in constant fear of it.

“May I go with you, sir?”

He smiled.

“Stay here in case any dispatches arrive. I just need to walk off the meal.”

Before Laurens could argue further, he opened the door and stepped out into the storm. The private guarding the entryway roused himself and snapped to attention.

He looked over at the lad, hat rim bent down with the weight of wet snow.

“It is Private Wellsley, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Ah, yes, sir.”

“All quiet.”

“Sir. Yes, sir. All quiet.”

“Good work, soldier, stand at ease,” he replied and walked on.

Closing the gate to the barnyard, he walked up the snow-covered road to the main encampment area. Snow swirled about him, all but obliterating the world, carpeting it in pure clean whiteness. Storms like this were rare along the Potomac, but often, out on the frontier, especially in the western Virginian mountains, a blow like this would come on. He and his companions would quickly pitch a camp and sometimes wait for days for it to clear. And when it did, all was blanketed in purity of white.

As he reached the outer ring of encampments and company streets, he slowed. He knew his form was hard to conceal, for he was, after all, one of the tallest men in the army. He hunched his shoulders down, and pulled the brim of his cap low over his brow, passing a picket, who simply saluted after he replied with the password for the day.

The air was rich with the scent of burning wood. He could see the reflected glow of fires from the wattle and daub chimney tops of the cabins. There were snatches of conversations, laughter, the sound of a violin playing a jaunty air. Everyone except the forlorn sentries was inside—out of the storm. He stood silent, listening for a few minutes in the middle of a company street. There had been full rations today and the men were relatively content. With the storm upon them, the instinct was to huddle together close to the fires within, and only to venture out for the most pressing of personal business.

An officer passed, hesitated, asked for the password, looked closely at him as if not sure.

“Cold night, sir,” he finally ventured.

“’Tis.”

“Can I get you anything, sir?”

“How goes it with your men?” he asked.

The officer seemed to hesitate.

“Hard day, sir. One of the regimental pets died.”

“Sir?”

“Our drummer boy. Only fifteen. Lung sickness. He had a father and three brothers in the ranks. Everyone is taking it hard.”

The officer nodded to the cabin they were standing near.

Unlike the others, from within this one he could hear crying.

On impulse he turned and went to the cabin, the officer nervously following.

“Sir, they are Irish; it’s a wake.”

“I feel I should make my condolences,” he replied. Slowly moving back the blanket that served as a door, he bent low and stepped in.

It was indeed a wake. They had yet to bury the boy, his still form stretched out on a bunk, gray face exposed. A man he assumed was the boy’s father sat on the bunk, holding the hand of his dead son. The cabin was packed with men so that it was actually warm within. Those sitting stood when they saw who was standing in the doorway. The father looked up at him but didn’t stir.

“Please, all remain at ease,” he offered, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed for intruding thus.

“I was just told of your tragic loss, sir,” he said to the father, “and may I offer my condolences.”

The man did not speak, just gazing at him.

“I am so sorry…” His voice trailed off. What could he offer here? A speech of encouragement? Hollow-sounding words that the youth had died for a gallant cause. The boy’s feet were sticking out from under the blanket, black from frostbite and rot.

If anything, he wished at this instant he could grab every corrupt contractor, every member of Congress who dawdled with committee reports, and bring them before this corpse and the father and let them explain.

“I am so sorry,” was all he could say yet again, and he started to back out of the cabin.

“Tell that to my wife, sir,” the old man snapped, looking at him coldly. “Will you go to her and explain why our youngest died like this?”

He did not reply, as there was no reply to give. He stepped back into the storm, the officer following.

“I apologize, sir,” the officer offered.

“None needed, sir. After the boy is buried, give the father, or one of his sons, a furlough home so they can break the news to that boy’s mother.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He sighed, back turned to the storm.

“Sir,” the officer ventured, nervously clearing his throat.

“Yes?”

“There’s a rumor that we are on half-rations again come tomorrow.”

It was true. If this storm did not abate, freezing their wagons and Wayne’s
foragers in place, it would be half-rations tomorrow and then either no rations or quarter-rations the day after.

“Pray the storm relents and General Wayne can bring in supplies,” he sighed, and walked off.

He felt he should turn back—Martha was waiting—but he continued on, shaken by the gaze of the mourning father. He passed more regimental encampments, barely noticed, like a ghost drifting by. In one street a bonfire was burning—a waste of firewood, but there seemed to be some sort of entertainment, a fifer and drummer playing a tune, some of the men and women of the camp dancing in spite of the storm. In another street there was an altercation, and he was tempted to step in. Two men exchanged blows until he saw that it was a fair “soldier’s fight.” Men were ringed about, cheering the two on, both men stripped to the waist, a sergeant moving in to break them apart, at one point shouting, “No kicking, wrestling, or gouging—fists only.” He watched for a minute until one of the pugilists, the bigger of the two, was knocked flat, the sergeant jumping between them, shouting that the fight was over and that the two were to shake hands.