Being George Washington (10 page)

“No, by Jove!” General Wilkinson thundered to Major McWilliams, pounding his fat fist upon the heavy oak table before them for emphasis, “Washington is not the man for the job! And the officers who surround him—this Quaker general Nathanael Greene, for example, or these boys Hamilton and Lafayette—well, they make him look like a genius, a veritable Alexander the Great or Cromwell!”

Wilkinson wasn’t done. “You know General Conway, don’t you?” he shook a finger at McWilliams, referring to yet another ambitious general who fancied himself superior in experience and judgment to Washington. “Well, Conway might be an Irishman, but he was one of the best generals the French had before he came over here, and he thinks the way I do—the way we
all
do! Conway wrote right to Gates himself, I can
quote it direct to you: ‘Heaven has determined to save your country, or otherwise a weak general and bad counselors would have ruined it.’”

Wilkinson paused from his tirade long enough to loudly demand another portion of rum from the innkeeper. The hour was late. And the more alcohol that entered General Wilkinson the more of what he considered truth burst forth.

“What do you think of
that
, McWilliams? I’ll tell you what
I
think: truer words were never spoken—and heaven will soon deal further with the master of Mount Vernon, unless, that is”—and here Wilkinson chuckled wildly—“hell takes him first!”

January 12, 1778

Valley Forge

“Fire cakes again?” stormed Corporal Amos Barnett of New York’s Westchester County militia. A deep, long scar that had turned a hideous purple in the Valley Forge cold ran down Barnett’s right cheek. It had been bestowed upon him courtesy of a dragoon’s slashing blow during the Battle of Long Island.

Barnett’s eyes fixed ominously on the concoction stewing in the fireplace before him. The men called it a “fire cake.” They took what little flour meal they had left, mixed it with water and a little salt (if they were lucky to have any), and ladled it onto a griddle—or in this case, on a flat rock—in their hut’s fireplace. And there was their “fire cake.”

“Damn it all!” the scarred New Yorker thundered even louder now. “Are we never to have meat again? Never?”

The flour-and-water mixture turned a brownish hue upon the flat, heated rock.

“Are you through, Corporal?” answered the recruit cooking the fire cakes, a slight lad—growing slighter every day—who was barely into his teens.

“No, I am not!” Barnett sputtered. “What manner of army is this? What kind of war when men die more in camp than in battle? Who bears responsibility for this?”

“I do,” came a voice from the doorway.

A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward the powerful figure standing before them, his left arm tucked beneath his great red-lined cape, his hand taut upon the gold handle of his sword.

“I apologize to every man here for every hardship,” Washington said, his black manservant Billy Lee, along with Colonel Hamilton and General Lafayette, standing just behind him. “I thank you all for the service you have rendered to the causes of liberty and independence.”

But responsibility was not truly his. Congress had taken the issue of supplies out of his hands. It had placed its trust in men who were thieves, incompetent, or who simply did not care.

But George Washington took responsibility anyway.

The soldiers before him remained quiet, so Washington continued. “I have sent parties out to forage for grain and cattle and horses and clothing and boots. General Greene will assume overall command of supplies. We are even sending our men to New England to secure cattle. We will bring them back on the hoof, Providence willing.

“Meat, gentlemen, meat.”

His audience remained silent. Too dumbstruck to speak. A now-forgotten fire cake blackened and burned in the fireplace. It charred and smoked. No one noticed.

“Do you take me at my word, fellow patriots?” their commanding officer asked softly.

Finally, Corporal Barnett spoke: “You have not lied to me yet, General, nor to any of us here. So yes, we take you at your word.”

“Will you join us for dinner, General? We have not much, but what we have is yours.”

“Yes,” said General Washington, thinking not only of the men before him but of the West Indies–born Hamilton and the highborn French nobleman Lafayette and the slave Billy Lee behind him. “I would be honored to dine with you tonight—
to dine among Americans
.”

Yet another foreign-born officer now stood at attention before Washington.

Hamilton spoke excellent English, and the brave young Lafayette spoke enough so that he could be
mis
understood—but this chap, this
pudgy man with the great sunburst medal, the Star of Fidelity of Baden, pinned over his heart, a bulbous nose and a twinkling smile, spoke nary a word of the King’s English.

The officer standing before Washington spoke German, along with a touch of French that he had acquired along the way from one European battlefield to another. He called himself Baron Friedrich Wilhelm August Heinrich Ferdinand von Steuben and informed one and all—or at least the one and all who could understand him—that he had been a close associate of Europe’s greatest warrior, King Frederick the Great of Prussia.

Washington placed his reading spectacles upon his nose and pored over the letter of introduction from the Congress that Steuben presented to him. Benjamin Franklin, representing the rebels in Paris, and the Congress residing in York had dispatched this foreigner here to Valley Forge—but what had they dispatched him to do exactly, make schnitzel of the enemy?

Washington read the portion of Franklin’s letter concerning Frederick the Great and it impressed him. Frederick was the most noted warrior in all of Europe. Washington solemnly nodded his head in appreciation, and, as Steuben noticed Washington nodding, the German too began to nod, adopting the general’s somber manner. Steuben had no idea why Washington—or he—was nodding. But he kept nodding anyway, and as Washington kept reading and nodding, Steuben kept nodding—faster and faster and faster.

He figured it wouldn’t hurt.

Even had he noticed it, Washington would never have been able or willing to keep pace with Steuben’s nodding, but he really began to nod when he read that von Steuben proposed to serve without salary. He would take only necessary expenses, and he would only receive a salary if the rebels ultimately triumphed.

George Washington was a betting man. He would bet on fox hunts, on horse races, on lotteries, on just about anything. If the Virginian had one vice, it was gambling. Now, in Steuben and the deal he had cut with Congress, Washington saw a kindred spirit. The baron had bet the table on American independence—and Washington, who had bet his very life on it, really liked that.

And, if that were not enough for Washington, there was even more
to like about von Steuben. In a Continental Army flooded by European officers grabbing for every rank, promotion, and command that they might, this von Steuben fellow requested nothing but to serve.

Washington liked him right away. Here was a chap he might already possess plans for. Washington stopped nodding, looked the shorter man in the eye—and delivered a rare smile.

Steuben burst into a great grin. “Ja!” he exclaimed, “Ja! Vashington! Ja!”

“Ja!” said Washington. “Steuben!”

“Major General Thomas Conway to see you, General Washington.”

Conway, his epaulets of golden braid glistening in the midday sun, kicked the dust off his boots as he entered Washington’s headquarters, located at the very rear of Isaac Potts’s modest two-story, six-room gray stone farmhouse. The egotistical Conway might have tidied himself
before
entering his commander in chief’s private office, but that would have indicated his respect for Washington.

Conway was feeling his oats, and his smug expression only further betrayed his confidence. And why, after all, should Conway not display unbounded swagger? The noose was now tightening around Washington—not a British noose, but an American one. Congress had snubbed Washington by appointing a “Board of War” to oversee the army. Washington wasn’t on it, but Horatio Gates was—and his drunken henchman General James Wilkinson served as its secretary.

Now Conway had even more salt to rub in George Washington’s wounds.

“You know why I am here, General. Congress has promoted me to major general and made me inspector general of all continental armies.”

Conway could barely contain himself in pronouncing those words.

Washington, invariably gracious, had no welcome for this man. “Major General Conway, I will treat and provide you with every ounce of respect and cooperation that
your rank and appointments
entitle the bearer of that rank and assignment. When official business demands that I consult with you, I will. No such business exists at present. You are dismissed.”

Conway stood there stunned. The world suddenly seemed enveloped in silence. Even the sparrows outside in their nests seemed to have
ceased their songs. A minute previously, Conway had felt himself at the top of the world. Now he had absorbed an icy blast worthy of the North Pole. George Washington had cut him dead. George Washington, he had just discovered, was afraid neither of British bullets nor of strutting, scheming backstabbers.

Conway exited the Potts farmhouse. He tried to provide the impression that all had gone well inside, but he noticed a semicircle of Washington’s officers had gathered around him. They followed him to his horse in an oddly menacing manner, speaking not a word. Their silent, icy glances were nearly as frosty as the reception Conway had endured inside and conveyed one unmistakable impression: George Washington had the undying loyalty of every one of the troops who served with him.

If Conway and his ally Horatio Gates were to triumph it would not be with the support of the men who had suffered alongside George Washington at Valley Forge. They’d need to look elsewhere.

January 21, 1778

Philadelphia

General William Howe drummed his finely manicured fingers upon his fine Chippendale mahogany desk. Behind him, in an elaborately carved and gilded frame, was a portrait of his monarch, King George III. The frame had not always contained the monarch’s portrait. Until Howe’s arrival it had held a family portrait of John and Elizabeth Cadwalader and their daughter, Anne. But now Cadwalader served in Washington’s army and William Howe—along with Betsy Loring, a woman half his age—slept in Cadwalader’s bed.

Superintendent-General of Police Galloway once again stood before him. “Your Excellency,” Galloway began, “you know that we have word that the worst may have passed for Washington’s army—”

“Yes! I know that,” Howe impatiently interrupted. This Galloway was more than he could bear. “He has more recruits,” Howe continued. “He is now receiving supplies. French and German and even Polish officers join his ranks. Yes. Yes. Yes. I know all of it!”

Galloway tugged nervously upon his fine lace cuff. He knew that
Howe did not want to hear what he was about to suggest—but he was bold enough to make the suggestion anyway. He had to, so much depended upon it! General Howe might be able to return to his estates in Britain if Washington succeeded, but, if, heaven forbid, Washington and his rebels triumphed, Galloway would have to abandon his own fortune and board a sailing ship for Canada—assuming the British still held Canada—or for London, or, maybe even for India. No, Joseph Galloway had to make his case whether William Howe liked it or not.

“We still have time, General,” Galloway continued. “A force of sufficient strength could still wreak havoc on the rebels at Valley Forge.

Howe thought otherwise. Washington had supply problems, yes, but he had chosen Valley Forge wisely. It would be a difficult place to attack, even in perfect weather. But an attack in wintertime? What was Galloway thinking?
Real
armies would never so much as contemplate that!

Galloway saw the look upon Howe’s face that he had seen many times before. But as Galloway continued making his case, he looked beyond Howe, through the leaded-glass window onto Second Street, where a gleaming black sleigh, brightly upholstered in green fabric, had pulled up. Assisted by her footman, the beautiful Betsy Loring stepped daintily down onto the cobblestones. Almost simultaneously, and without any willful thought on his part, bits of doggerel began to play in Galloway’s brain.

The rhymes now invading his head had torn their way through Philadelphia like wildfire. Superintendent-General Galloway wasn’t the only individual frustrated by Howe’s abysmal lack of military initiative. Many blamed Howe’s lethargy upon his reluctance to leave the City of Brotherly Love—not simply because of its brotherly love in the form of urban comforts, but also because of its sisterly love provided by the beautiful Mrs. Loring. And so, in rough waterfront taverns, behind General Howe’s red-coated back, an increasing number of critics hoisted their pewter flagons of ale to chant a poem first penned by a rebel:

Awake, arouse Sir Billy,

There’s forage in the plain,

Ah, leave your little Filly,

And open the campaign.

and …

Sir William Howe, he, snug as a flea,

Lay all this time a-snoring;

Nor dreamed of harm, as he lay warm

In bed with Mrs. Loring

There was much truth in those words, but even if Mrs. Loring had chosen to remain as faithful to Mr. Loring as Martha Washington had remained to George, General Howe had little interest in pursuing Washington’s rebels through bramble bushes or across frozen streams. In fact, he seemed to have little interest in pursuing any rebels
anywhere
.

General Howe, disgusted with the war and how Parliament’s politicians ran it, had already submitted his resignation to the king. He now waited only for Betsy Loring—and for his orders to return to London.