Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (36 page)

“Battalion, fix bayonets!”

More than a few looked back at Lafayette in confusion.

“We ain’t got bayonets!” someone shouted from the ranks.

“Well, make believe you got them, damn it!” the colonel shouted.

There was a ripple of laughter from some. Sergeants began to curse, and some officers drew swords. Others just looked around as about half the men complied.

“Charge bayonets!”

A few of the men started to run forward rather than properly follow the command, which was for the first rank to level their weapons with a shout, the rear rank shouldering their weapons high. In a proper Prussian or British line three files deep, the second rank would hold their weapons high over the shoulder of the front rank while the third rank shouldered arms.

The line was now in confusion. “Battalion, at the quick time, forward, march!” von Steuben cried in German, forgetting himself for a moment, Lafayette translating in his high, clear voice.

The men started forward.

The regiment lurched forward, within seconds nearly all semblance of formation gone. There was just a surging mass of men. Von Steuben was silent, watching, trying to keep his features emotionless.

“Battalion, by the right wheel, at the quick time, march!”

As he expected, the unit disintegrated. Some men simply continued straight ahead; others turned right on the spot and went off in that direction. The company on the far right did try to wheel, but no one followed them. The drummer didn’t even know the proper beat to signal the command. The fifer just kept blasting away with the only tune he apparently knew.

Without comment, von Steuben turned from the field. He kept his fea
tures composed, almost cheerful, but shot an icy glance at L’Enfant and the others of his staff for them to remain absolutely silent, though most of them were looking on either with bemusement or outright horror.

“We’re all dead men,” Vogel whispered in German.

Von Steuben rode back to join Washington, who had remained silent, unperturbed, though General Greene had ridden over, a bit red-faced.

“Sir, it’s a fairly new regiment of replacements from Connecticut,” he offered. “Most of the veterans went home at the end of last year.”

“I understand, sir, do not apologize,” von Steuben offered with a smile. “Shall we continue on?” Washington offered. “Of course, sir,” and now Lafayette was back beside them. “The display was rather disconcerting,” Washington offered. “I can assure you some of my regiments do behave better, significantly better.”

“I am certain they do.”

“But…” Washington’s voice trailed off, von Steuben not replying.

“It is not what you expected, is it?”

He shook his head. “It is what I expected, sir.”

Washington eyed him carefully and wished, at this moment, that von Steuben’s command of English were better. He feared that an inflection or a wrongly chosen word would now convey all the wrong meaning.

“How so?” Washington asked.

“I have read the reports, sir,” and Lafayette provided the translation. “First, I do not doubt the valor of your men, of those men out in the field just now. They must have valor to have volunteered to be here.”

He paused, fearing there was an implied insult.

“I rode past the burial ground as I came here,” he said quickly. “I know that hundreds, perhaps a thousand or more have died since you’ve come here, and thousands more have either gone home because enlistments are up, or have simply deserted.”

Washington nodded, saying nothing.

“Those that stay in spite of that are men of valor. Though by the accounts I read you did not win at Germantown or Brandywine, nevertheless the men fought hard, and some of them did fight to victory at Trenton and Princeton.”

“And precious few of those men are now left,” Washington replied, and von Steuben could detect the sadness in the man’s voice.

“In the Prussian army we say that it takes three years to train a man from being cannon fodder into a soldier who can march, follow orders, and fight on a battlefield. The discipline of the battlefield is the hardest school to master.”

“And you are saying we do not have that?”

He looked straight at Washington. “There are many kinds of battlefields, General. I understand you yourself have experienced a number of them. How you Americans might fight out on the frontier, as you did with Braddock, or how the northern army fought in the forests of upstate New York, will be vastly different from how you fight in the the farmlands, villages, and towns down here along the coastal plains. Vastly different.”

Washington nodded, saying nothing.

“Perhaps that is where I might first be of service to you, sir.”

“How is that?”

“Training. Traditional Prussian school of training.”

Washington looked at him in silence.

Von Steuben smiled and shook his head.

“I already understand that you in this New World see many things differently. This is not an army of drafted peasants, or men that my old commanders stole from farms in Poland, or swept up out of the gutters of every city in Europe. These are free yeomen, landholders themselves, men who fight for a reason, and they must be respected as such. But they must all learn to pull the same rope at the same time.”

“Same rope, sir?”

“To work as one, in discipline. One regiment, trained to march in order, fire in volley three times a minute, to hold its line in defense, advance, charge, or retreat, must act as one. Give me one regiment such as that in an open-field fight and they can stand against five regiments that do not fight in unison and maneuver as one. I think you will agree with me on that, sir.”

Washington offered a smile and nodded.

“I do. We have all witnessed the power of disciplined British and Hessian professional units.”

“Perhaps that is where I can be of best service to you, sir.”

“You’ve thought about this already, haven’t you, Baron?”

He could not lie here. “Yes, I have.”

“Why?”

“I read the reports. I had the accounts in the British papers read to me. They dread encountering you in forests and mountains, but here, in this region, where you must fight to hold open farmland and villages, they find themselves invincible. The moment their disciplined lines advance at the double, bayonet points gleaming, they know they have won, and indeed up to now they have won. But now we can change that.

“General Washington, when was the last time you witnessed a battle, fought in the open during the daytime when bayonets were actually crossed?”

“A few moments at Trenton, Long Island…” His voice trailed off as if the memory was too unpleasant to recall.

“And at Paoli,” one of the officers riding nearby snarled.

He looked back, nodded, and saluted.

“May I presume you are General Wayne?” von Steuben asked.

“The same,” and his voice was taut.

“Sir, what would you give to use the bayonet on their light infantry after first beating them back with disciplined volley fire?”

Wayne gazed at him coldly, but then just merely nodded. “Perhaps I can help you, sir. I have fought in the fields of Germany and the wilds of Russia not unlike this. Each terrain requires a different method. I am certain you have mastered one. I would be honored to help teach your men the other and gain the vengeance I hear you have sworn yourself to.”

Wayne did not reply, just continuing to gaze at him.

“I think General Wayne can attest it is the sight of the bayonet that breaks lines, not the actual touch of the blade. It is the sight of a disciplined line that is doing one of two things: either advancing, en masse, shoulder to shoulder, unrelenting, bayonets poised, or holding its ground in the same manner, also unrelenting, sweeping the field with volley fire to break a charge. It is the look in each man’s eyes, the feel that they are unstoppable, that they will not break, that carries the battle at its climax. It shows that the will of the one is stronger than the other and will not be broken.”

He sighed and looked back over his shoulder at the disorganized battalion that was still trying to sort itself out, the colonel now bawling the men out at the top of his lungs.

“General, I do not for an instant doubt the worth of those men. Combine that with proper drill, drill, and yet more drill. Drill so that rather than one time a minute they can fire two to three times a minute—that alone will make it seem as if you have fifty percent more men on the field of battle. And, yes, I know the British can fire four, and some of my fellow Germans can fire five, times a minute. We do not have to match the very best. We only have to become good enough to stand against them. Even just that modest increase in disciplined, reliable firing will mean much to our men’s morale.”

Washington could not help but smile as Lafayette translated “our men.” This Prussian seemed to have the right attitude and the right identification with the cause of American freedom.

“Then add in drill and yet more drill, to march in line, wheel, turn, charge, hold, fall back in proper order…”

His voice trailed off. He realized that he had warmed so much to his subject that he was now as excitable as a reckless lad. Lafayette was struggling hard to keep up with the translation, and those riding behind them were silent, trying to listen in.

“I am sorry, General, if I spoke out of turn,” he concluded woodenly.

Washington rode on, looking straight ahead, taking it in. He said nothing for a moment. Von Steuben was now worried that he had tried to oversell himself and his view of discipline, drill, and warfare.

“I have heard it said that with the Great Frederick, his drills are near on like battles, and his battles at times are nothing more than bloody drills,” Washington responded.

“I have heard that, too. I have lived it and know it to be the truth.”

“I must remind you, sir, that this is an American army. I demand discipline and respect from my men and do not broker with insubordination, drunkenness, and desertion, but still these are Americans. A year ago I would have told you they were still men of thirteen different states, but at least here, some semblance of oneness is taking shape. I pray that this army will be a model for the entire nation by the time this war is won.”

The way he forcefully said the last four words, “this war is won,” caught von Steuben. It was the way Frederick the Great would have said it, even in the darkest days after Berlin had been taken and the alliance was closing in from three sides. It was far more than he had ever seen with Gates, and at that instant he was glad he had refrained from the game of politics in York and held out for this posting with the real army.

“We are making a nation here,” Washington announced, speaking louder, so that the rest of the entourage could hear.

“I do not wish to see, nor would they tolerate themselves, the type of mindless discipline instilled by the British army with its troops. I want an army of men who can think, I want officers who can seize the moment and lead without cowering and looking over their shoulder for direction the way that poor colonel back there did. But at the same time I want an army of men who can stand toe-to-toe with the British and their Hessian allies, fight it out, and hold the field. I know, sir, we have all been lacking in training for that type of fight. I want an army that can fight, Baron, and beat our professional opponents at their own game.”

Then I am your man, sir
, von Steuben was tempted to say, but he remained silent, for it sounded far too self-seeking.

Washington reined in his mount and looked directly at him.

“Can you help me with that?”

He lowered his head in reply, nodded, saying nothing.

“And you do so as a volunteer without seeking rank or pay?”

“That is my offer, sir,” and he paused, looking over at Vogel and the others with him who were watching anxiously. “Though, sir, I would restate that at least expenses be covered for my personal servant and that some sufficient rank of your own choosing be provided for my staff. They have ventured far to join this cause and have not the independent means that I might have.”

Washington looked past him to the anxious, hopeful faces of the half-dozen others behind him.

He forced a smile, looking like an overworked father who was suddenly confronted by yet more mouths to feed.

“I am certain billets can be found according to their ranks and skills, sir.”

There was an uneasy silence.

“You will join me for dinner, Baron, and afterwards we can discuss this in greater detail. I have a task in mind for you that I believe you shall find interesting, as will your staff.”

He offered a polite nod and then a formal salute that signified dismissal. Turning his mount, Washington rode off, followed by the other generals, though Lafayette stayed behind.

“Gentlemen. We cannot offer accommodations befitting you at this time, but a cabin has been set aside for you,” and he motioned to the side of the road, where a log cabin without a door awaited them. Dismounting, Lafayette led the way, von Steuben and the others following. Pulling aside the blanket that served as a door, he motioned for them to enter as if he was a servant at a grand palace, and von Steuben detected the hint of a smile.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The fireplace was cold, though kindling and wood was stacked up for them. The bunks were nothing more than saplings pegged into the walls, no mattresses, just rope loosely woven and covered with a blanket, pine boughs, and some straw.

“Palatial for some of us, if not quite like home,” Lafayette announced, and von Steuben could hear the hint of humor in the young man’s voice.

“This will serve,” von Steuben replied, stilling any protest from the others.

Azor sniffed around the room, picked a lower bunk, and immediately
climbed into it, the bunk sagging beneath his weight. With a sigh, he settled down.

“He has made his claim,” L’Enfant offered, and the others laughed.

Vogel, ever efficient, was already kneeling at the fireplace, breaking up kindling, producing flint. Within a few minutes a fire began to flicker to life.