The Drillmaster of Valley Forge (15 page)

It was a spectacle rarely seen even in the best-trained European armies. The onlookers applauded in awestruck approval as the smoke billowing from the muzzles of ten thousand muskets obscured the neatly aligned ranks from their view. John Laurens could hardly contain his excitement:

When it was all over, the men broke ranks, returning to their huts to take a well-deserved break and enjoy the gill of rum that Washington had ordered for each of them as a reward for their performance. The generals retired to a “cold collation” with their commander in chief and their wives. Warm handshakes and self-congratulatory smiles all around, toasts to Washington, the king of France, and the Alliance, “with as much sincerity as that of the British King used to be in former times.” “I thought I should be devoured,” Duponceau later reminisced, “by the caresses which the American officers lavished upon me as one of their new allies.”
²⁹
Washington waited for just this moment to spring the surprise on his “dear Baron”: that he was a volunteer aide no longer, but one of Washington's generals, and inspector general on top of that.

It was a great day, for the Cause, for the army, and for Steuben. Though the Baron's greatest contributions to the American army were yet to come, it was on the whole the most satisfying moment of his life. The forcibly retired infantry captain who so feared dying as an unknown, a mediocrity, was now a major general and the object of sincere accolades. After just about a month of hard work, the army bore his personal imprint more than that of any other man. The army was, of course, a creation of the American people, of the individual states, and of Washington himself, but its metamorphosis was his, its current shape and form were his.

Yet all the while, as Major General de Steuben swelled with pride at his creation and basked in the heartfelt congratulations of his fellow generals, a nagging question flitted unseen through his mind, a question that had not left him since General Washington first raised it only a couple of weeks before: Was the army ready for battle? Did the staged performance on the Grand Parade signal that the army was any better prepared to meet the Redcoats than it had been at Brandywine?

In Philadelphia the British were stirring from their long and comfortable slumber, and Washington was determined to make use of his army while the men were still animated by their newfound confidence.

T
HE SUN ROSE EARLY IN MID
-M
AY
, and although there had been some heavy rains in the previous days, the morning of May 20, 1778, dawned clear and cool. It was already light when the men first stirred and roused themselves for roll call, breakfast, and the plethora of fatigue duties that had to be performed each and every morning. The drill would commence in midmorning, for neither Washington nor Steuben was about to allow for any slacking, even after the army's stellar performance two weeks before at the Grand Review.

The morning began much as any other, yet there was something different about the mood in camp today. The atmosphere was somehow electric; there was a tangible feeling of apprehension, even as the men went about cleaning their muskets, shaving, mending torn clothing. All of them knew that only
yesterday the Marquis de Lafayette had left camp with nearly a fifth of the army to scout the countryside to the east of the cantonment. There had been no word from him since.

At around eight o'clock, a cannon-shot thundered from the artillery park, then another, then another.

The series of cannon blasts was an alarm: Valley Forge was in danger. There was neither need nor time for explanation. The men sprang into action, ceasing their chores. Stumbling out of their fetid, smoky huts, they grabbed their muskets and accoutrements as they rushed to join their companies in line. They were not panicked, for they knew by training and habit where they had to go and what they had to do. Within fifteen minutes, the entire army was arranged in line of battle, ready to form columns and march at a moment's notice.

The army remained on high alert for hours. Rumors whispered through the ranks soon acquainted the men with the broad outlines of the situation: Lafayette's detachment was in trouble, and therefore it was likely that a British force was on its way to punish Valley Forge itself. It was near nightfall when the army was allowed to relax its vigilance. But the excitement did not end there, for dispatch riders had come with reassuring news from Lafayette himself. On that very day, Lafayette and his Continentals had met the British in combat, and they had not done badly.

 

T
HE INTRICACIES
of the feu de joie showed that the army was more battle-ready than it had ever been. Perhaps the display was a frivolity, but its successful execution required that the Continental Line be capable of all sorts of complicated evolutions—deploying from marching column into line of battle, forming columns again, delivering crisp, perfectly timed volleys of musketry—all of which had their place on the eighteenth-century battlefield.
²

Still, impressive though it may have been to those who witnessed it, the feu de joie did not in itself signify that the Continentals were ready to go toe-to-toe with the Redcoats. It did indeed require martial
skills, but the event was nonetheless an act of stylized ceremony; it bore no resemblance to combat. No one had fired back at the Continentals. There were no mangled, broken men or panicked horses, no musketry or cannon-shot to tear jagged holes in the neatly aligned ranks of soldiers, no waves of gleaming and levelled bayonets, no agonized screams, no blood. A great number of the men at the Grand Review had lived through the battles around New York in 1776 and Philadelphia in 1777, and they knew what battle was like. The feu de joie was not battle.

But battle was not far off, because Washington was eager for action. In mid-April, he had asked his generals to give their opinions on three proposed operational plans: Should the army try to force the British from Philadelphia, or launch a surprise attack on New York? Or should it forego offensive operations altogether and remain at Valley Forge to hone its skills further? The generals split almost evenly over the three options. Though at that point not yet a general, Steuben joined with Lafayette in urging caution. The army should maintain a defensive posture where it was, continue with rigorous training, and not intentionally court danger. After some thought, Washington decided that the foreigners were probably right, for the time being.
³

But Washington could not leave the subject alone for very long. Less than three weeks later, only two days after the Grand Review, he summoned all of his generals to his headquarters for a council of war. The question he posed was the same—attack Philadelphia, New York, or not at all? There was little support for an immediate offensive, but all agreed, even the wary Europeans, that preparations should be made for offensive operations in the not-too-distant future.

The generals were beginning to echo the enthusiasm and impatience of their commander in chief, for the condition of the army had much improved since mid-April. Thanks to the dedication and competence of Nathanael Greene and Jeremiah Wadsworth, the new quartermaster and commissary generals, respectively, steady supplies of clothing and food were finally making their way into Valley Forge. The return of fair weather lightened the overall mood and reduced the
virulence of the afflictions—such as dysentery and scabies—plaguing the soldiers. Army-wide inoculations significantly curtailed the incidence of smallpox, the scourge of eighteenth-century armies. And two months of constant drill built muscle and sinew as much as it did confidence. The army was spoiling for a fight.

The situation in Philadelphia was changing, too. Intelligence received from spies in the hostage capital reported two important developments. First, the anticipated change of command was about to take place. Sir Henry Clinton was on his way to Philadelphia to supplant the hedonistic Sir William Howe, and would arrive there on May 8—the very day of Washington's latest council of war. Soon Sir William would be on his way back to England. Second, rumor had it that Clinton would likely evacuate the city within a few weeks. The French alliance troubled him, for if the French managed to gain naval superiority off Chesapeake Bay, then Philadelphia would be very vulnerable. New York City would be much more secure.
⁴

In light of these developments, and bolstered by the cautious optimism of his generals, Washington made the decision to allow a small force to probe the British defenses to the north and west of Philadelphia. Lafayette, eager to prove himself, offered to command the expedition, and Washington accepted.

On the morning of May 19, 1778, Lafayette's detachment marched out of Valley Forge and toward Philadelphia. The force was substantial: more than two thousand soldiers of the Continental Line, a battery of five cannon, approximately six hundred Pennsylvania militia, forty-seven warriors of the Oneida nation, and a handful of French Canadians who had accompanied the Oneidas from the north. Lafayette had recruited the Oneidas earlier that spring, as he was preparing to lead the abortive invasion of Canada that Congress had pushed upon him. They had arrived at Valley Forge six days before Lafayette's departure, and their appearance caused quite a stir among the Continentals. Most of the men there had never seen an Indian before.
⁵

Lafayette's motley corps marched about halfway to Philadelphia that day, crossing the Schuylkill at Swede's Ford, then proceeding along the Swede's Ford Road leading to the southeast along the course of the Schuylkill. After a march of just under fifteen miles, Lafayette halted his force at the tiny hamlet of Barren Hill. It seemed a good and secure location for a night's rest. Barren Hill, as its name implied, was a treeless plateau overlooking the Schuylkill to the west, dense forest to the north, and cultivated fields to the south. Nearby was a crossroads, where one easterly road—called the Ridge Road—led directly to Philadelphia.

Lafayette deployed his men in a defensive posture facing to the southeast, his right flank anchored on the bluffs of the Schuylkill, his left flank hanging, exposed, in the air. “We…placed our guards, sent off our scouting parties, and waited for—I know not what,” recalled seventeen-year-old private Joseph Plumb Martin. To the militia and the Canadians fell the duty of guarding the roads that converged at Barren Hill. The rest of the Continentals relaxed. Private Martin and a couple of Oneida warriors amused themselves by stirring up an enormous quantity of bats that had taken refuge in the eaves of an old house.
⁶

The men were blissfully unaware that the British knew precisely where the Americans were. They had walked straight into a trap.

Clinton and Howe had received word of Lafayette's expedition almost as soon as it began. The marquis had presented them with an opportunity that simply could not be missed. His force was travelling through open country, within striking distance of Philadelphia but distant enough from Valley Forge that he could not be reinforced quickly. The Schuylkill, swollen and treacherous from the spring rains, would make a rapid retreat to the Forge difficult. And the British had no reason to expect that the Continentals would be any more formidable than they had been in the previous campaign. Howe ordered that preparations should be made to receive Lafayette as a distinguished guest—there was no doubt that he would be taken prisoner.

During the night of the nineteenth and the early morning hours of the twentieth, the British set their trap. Three full divisions, at least ten thousand British and German troops, marched out of Philadelphia to confront Lafayette's force, which was outnumbered by more than four to one.

As the British approached Barren Hill, the three divisions separated and took up their positions. The first, under the command of Gen. Charles Grant, moved northward up the Swede's Ford Road, cutting off Lafayette's line of retreat back to Valley Forge. Gen. Charles Grey's column marched eastward toward Lafayette's exposed left flank, while the main body, under the joint command of Clinton and Howe, pushed up the Ridge Road and directly toward the American front and right. This latter force would keep Lafayette from retreating downstream to the next nearest ford, Levering's. The Schuylkill prevented a direct retreat to the west. Lafayette was being enveloped.

The marquis was completely oblivious to his impending doom. The Pennsylvania militia, which was supposed to guard the northern passage to Swede's Ford, left inexplicably in the night, and hence Lafayette was rendered blind in that direction. It was not until just after dawn on the morning of the twentieth that Lafayette learned anything of the British presence. A miller who lived near the Swede's Ford Road rushed to Lafayette's camp to report the proximity of Grant's column. Around the same time, American pickets to the south along the Ridge Road encountered a body of British light dragoons, the lead elements of the Howe-Clinton column. The pickets—Oneida warriors, the Canadians, and portions of Col. Dan Morgan's legendary rifle regiment—engaged the British in a brisk firefight, driving the dragoons back before retiring toward the American main body.

It was just about too late for Lafayette to do anything but stand and take his chances, slim as they were. The men did not have to be apprised of the situation; word spread quickly through the ranks. Private Martin recounted, “Just at dawn of the day the officers' waiters came,
almost breathless, after the horses. Upon inquiring for the cause of the unusual hurry, we were told that the British were advancing upon us in our rear. How they could get there was to us a mystery, but they
were
there.”
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With the British almost upon him, Lafayette's first instinct was to prepare for the inevitable onslaught. Since the most immediate danger came from Grey's column, on Lafayette's exposed left flank, the marquis wisely decided to “refuse” the flank, extending his line to the left and bending it back at a right angle so as to face Grey's oncoming Redcoats. The angle of the American left was now anchored around a small Lutheran church and cemetery, fortified by a chest-high stone wall that afforded the Continentals there a modicum of protection. The Americans steeled themselves for the British attack. “I began to think I should soon have some better sport than killing bats,” Private Martin mused.

Although Lafayette did not know the exact strength of the enemy moving rapidly toward him, he knew that he was woefully outmatched. He
must
escape—but how?

There was one option left open to him. A short distance upstream, between Barren Hill and Swede's Ford, there was yet another crossing: Matson's Ford. It was not an ideal place to cross. The Schuylkill was deeper there than it was at Swede's or Levering's, so there was no guarantee the army could get across. And Grant's Redcoats, blocking the road to Swede's, were closer to Matson's Ford than Lafayette was. If Lafayette set out for Matson's and the British detected the movement in time, Grant could beat the Americans there. The British could cut off their line of retreat or, worse, pour musket fire into the backs of the fleeing Continentals as they foundered in the turbulent waters.

Lafayette took the chance. With Morgan's riflemen and the Oneidas screening them, the Continentals changed formation from line of battle to marching column in the blink of an eye. This was the kind of maneuver that previously would have wasted much valuable time, but these men were not the Continentals of 1776 or 1777. Grant, thinking that the Americans intended to drive him from Swede's Ford Road,
maintained a defensive posture and did not move until it was too late. The Continentals waded uncertainly into Matson's Ford—with Lafayette plunging his horse impulsively into the water ahead of his men—while the Oneidas delayed the British cavalry threatening the American rear guard. Even then, escape was not a sure thing. The river was deep and the current strong at Matson's. The men had to link arms as they pushed into the roiling chest-deep water—some men lost their muskets, but not a man drowned.
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Lafayette had made his escape. Clinton and Howe gave up the chase and withdrew to Philadelphia, while the Americans rested for the night on the west bank of the Schuylkill, returning to Valley Forge the next day.