The Drillmaster of Valley Forge (14 page)

In the meantime, each installment of the training regimen was transmitted in writing as well. There was no time to draw up a complete set of regulations, edit them, and have them printed; that would have to wait for a more relaxed season. Instead, the brigade inspectors would report to Steuben's headquarters to make a handwritten copy of each new lesson, bring it to his assigned brigade, and allow each regimental adjutant and clerk to copy the instructions verbatim into the regimental orderly books. Clerks, the human Xerox machines of the day, must have despised the system.
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The lessons followed an unusual and innovative pattern. Customarily, new recruits were first taught the very basics of the marching step, and were then instructed in the Manual Exercise, the series of postures and movements that taught each soldier how to manipulate his musket: how to load and fire, how to fix and unfix the bayonet; how to shoulder, order, ground, and salute with his “firelock,” or musket. Each movement was taught “by the motions,” broken down into small components so that the men could perform everything in unison and at the same pace. Once these motions were taught, soldiers were then exercised in squads and larger formations, with battalion/ regimental, brigade, and division maneuvers coming last.

Steuben turned this order on its head. The Manual Exercise, he reasoned, was the least important component of training. The ability to maneuver in large units was far more essential. So although he composed a very brief, very simple Manual Exercise for the training program, he spent little time on this, and pushed the men right along from marching in squads to marching in battalions and brigades. Other concepts, such as the Manual Exercise and the use of the bayonet, would be taught along the way, but the emphasis was almost entirely on precision marching. This approach, while unconventional by European (and American) standards, was pragmatic. Most American officers thought so, too. The colonel of a New York regiment described it to a friend:

Even stodgy, conservative Gates approved wholeheartedly. “Considering the few Moments that is left us for this necessary Work,” he told Steuben, “I should rather recommend the Discipline of the Leggs, than the Firelocks, or the Hands; the preservation of Order at all
Times is essentially necessary. It leads to Victory, it Secures a Retreat, it saves a Country.”
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The pace of the instruction was ambitious, almost ridiculously so, by contemporary European standards. In the first days of the training regimen, the men learned to march in the “direct step”—that is, straight ahead—in both “common time” and “quick time.” They learned the “oblique step”—while facing straight ahead, each soldier would step out with the left foot ahead and to the left, bringing the right foot alongside it, so that the entire line remained straight but moved diagonally to the left at roughly a forty-five-degree angle. At the Baron's insistence, the marching was done without the accompaniment of field music, namely the fifes and drums that usually beat out the cadence, and initially the soldiers were not allowed to march with their muskets. They would also have to march in absolute silence: “they must not stir their hands, blow their noses, or much less talk.”
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By the second week of April, only three weeks into the program, entire regiments were drilling together, executing such maneuvers as “forming column of platoons” by wheeling (see Figure 1) and deploying a column of platoons into line of battle. Here the marching practice paid off, for although these maneuvers seem simple on paper, they required each unit and subunit to maintain precise intervals, and each man to march at precisely the same rate and length of stride. By the end of April, Steuben hoped, the entire army would be maneuvering in large units, and would be able to stage “Sham Battles” with artillery and cavalry.

Steuben, and, more important, the troops themselves, did not disappoint. Their progress was astounding. The Baron had taught drill to many kinds of men before—ordinary Prussian infantry, the unruly volunteers of the Free Battalions, the more patriotic native Prussian conscripts who filled Frederick's ranks at the end of the Seven Years' War—but he had experienced nothing like this. He was his own harshest critic, but even he was impressed with what he and his pupils had accomplished. “My Enterprize Succeeded better than I had dared to expect,” he reported to Congress later that year, “and I had the Satisfaction, in a
month's time, to see not only a regular Step introduced in the Army, but I also made maneuvers with ten and twelve Battalions with as much precision as the Evolution of a Single Company.”
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Infantry battalion of eight platoons, deploying from column to line of battle, wheeling by platoons

 

T
HE MEN COMPLAINED
about the intensity of the training program—“it was a continual drill,” recalled Pvt. Joseph Plumb Martin of the 8th Connecticut Regiment when reflecting on his life at Valley Forge—but only halfheartedly, as soldiers tend to complain about anything and everything.
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Though fast-paced, the program was not physically draining. Steuben insisted that no soldier should have to exercise more than two hours each day. Any more than that, he argued, would fatigue the men and ultimately prove counterproductive.

The Baron, however, held himself to a much more demanding schedule. It was no easy thing for a man his age—at forty-seven he was hardly young—but he kept up. Through the remainder of March and all of April, and for some time to come, he continued to work late and rise very early. When he wasn't conferring with his subordinates or other officers, he observed the drills and stepped in where necessary to make a point. Few soldiers were accustomed to the sight of an officer, much less one of the Baron's dignity and elevated reputation, grabbing a musket to perform the manual of arms, taking the time to adjust the gear of a private soldier, or marching along with an awkward squad as if he were a common sergeant. He just couldn't restrain himself from getting involved.

Those closest to him were astonished by the way in which he drove himself, and found it difficult to match his seemingly inexhaustible store of energy. “The Baron discovers the greatest zeal, and an activity which is hardly to be expected at his years,” John Laurens wrote in wonder to his father. “He is exerting himself like a Lieutenant anxious for promotion.”
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There was a purpose to his exertions that went beyond his ambition to accomplish his task by sheer force of will. He wanted to set an example for the Continental officers, hoping that they would eventually discard the “pernicious English habit” of leaving the responsibility of drill to their NCOs. His American colleagues took note of this. “The Officers in general seem to entertain a high opinion of him, and he sets them an excellent example in descending to the functions of a drill-Serjeant,” John Laurens wrote. Alexander Scammell, colonel of the 3rd New Hampshire Regiment and Washington's adjutant general, could not find enough compliments to pay to the drillmaster:

Steuben considered this lesson—that the officers should, as in the Prussian army, take responsibility for their men—one of the most important that he could impart. A couple of years later, when he witnessed a regimental colonel tutoring a single raw recruit in the manual of arms, he exclaimed to one of his aides, “Do you see there, sir, your Colonel instructing that recruit? I thank God for that!”
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T
HE REACTION TO
S
TEUBEN'S REFORMS
, from officers and men alike, was almost universally positive. They understood the practical value of what they were learning under the Baron's firm hand, but most important they amazed themselves. That was one of the benefits of intensive training in drill, one that Steuben understood fully: drill instills pride. Though many in the army had been veterans of several campaigns, the Baron's schooling made them feel like
soldiers
, like men who now stood a chance of defeating the Redcoats on even terms. The transformation in morale was nothing short of miraculous. “Discipline flourishes and daily improves under the indefatigable Efforts of Baron Steuben—who is much esteem'd by us,” wrote Alexander Scammell to Timothy Pickering, member of the Board of War.
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And esteemed by General Washington, too. He did not shower Steuben with praise—that was not his style—but his support was unstinting. Now that the Baron had proven his worth, now that he had been accepted, the general could risk giving him some reward for his efforts. The chance to do so seemed to drop from the sky at the most opportune time, as if by divine intervention. At the end of April, Congress accepted Thomas Conway's petulant offer of resignation. The post of inspector general was officially vacant as a result, and Washington did not hesitate. On the very same day, he took pen in hand to
inform Congress that he wished that the Baron should replace Conway. “He appears to me to have an accurate knowledge of every part of military discipline and arrangements,” the general expanded, “and to be a man of sense and judgment.” And since Steuben had once held high rank in Europe, it would be inappropriate for Congress to offer him anything less than the rank of major general.
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Major generalship—the very rank for which Steuben had hoped. The promotion would totally change his relationship to the army, to Washington, to Congress; it would put him on the same level as Washington's highest-ranking subordinates, make him answerable only to Washington himself, and provide him with a substantial salary. Congress did not waste a moment, but voted unanimously to give him the appointment and the commission five days later. Slyly, Washington kept the good news to himself. He had plans to make the announcement with just a bit of ceremony.

Some sort of ceremony was definitely in order. On May 1, word reached Valley Forge of the most welcome development of the year, and perhaps of the entire war. After months of careful negotiation by the commissioners in Paris, King Louix XVI had finally signed a military alliance with the United States. Within months, presumably, French troops, warships, muskets, and gold would pour into North America. The achievement of independence was no longer in doubt.

Washington was as elated as anyone, and he decided to celebrate the occasion with an official day of thanksgiving at Valley Forge. What better way to celebrate a military partnership than to show off the army's new abilities? It would demonstrate to the French that the United States took its end of the bargain seriously. And it would be deeply satisfying to Washington personally. He could reassure his allies in Congress that their confidence in him had not been misplaced, and prove to his detractors that they had gravely underestimated him.

Hence the Grand Review of May 6, 1778. Washington left the choreography of the Review to Steuben, who pounced upon the assignment as if he were starved for work. In just a couple of days, he worked out all of the intricate details, writing instructions for each brigade and regiment,
even drawing diagrams. Everything had to be laid out well in advance so that there would be no room for embarrassing errors.

The Review went off without a hitch on that crisp May morning. The boom of a cannon echoing over the encampment signalled the end of an open-air church service and the beginning of the maneuvers that Steuben had devised for the occasion. The entire army marched by files onto the Grand Parade, and though their uniforms were dishevelled, they moved like soldiers, silent and perfectly in cadence, to the music of the fifes and drums. They formed two parallel lines of battle, each two ranks deep, and after three salvos of thirteen cannon each rang out from the artillery park, the infantry gave its salute to France and the Alliance. It did so with an elaborate display, called a feu de joie. The first two men—one in the front rank, one in the rear—on the far right flank of the first line raised their muskets and fired into the air, followed immediately by the next two men on their left. The coordinated, rolling fire continued in this fashion, two muskets booming at a time from right to left along the first line, then commencing on the second line from left to right, and beginning all over again with the first line. The process was repeated three times. Not a man fired out of turn.
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