The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (40 page)

A plateau, then. They were climbing to a plateau where there was wood for fires. There should be food, too. The prospect helped him drive his tired, hurting body the last few hundred yards. Perhaps their agony was coming to an end—

By nightfall, Philip knew the hope had been cruelly false.

A savage December wind swept across the rolling two-mile plateau in the angle between the Schuylkill River flowing from west to east and the creek that came up from the south to join it. There were pines and oaks in plenty. But they offered scant protection from the wind.

And there were no supply wagons waiting.

When Philip, Breen and Royal tried to hammer pegs for their tent into the half-frozen ground, the pegs kept popping out. Exhausted, the three finally gave up, spread the rain-sodden canvas on the ground and crawled under it.

Philip listened to the pines moaning in the darkness. He had a dizzying vision of Anne and little Abraham sitting by a cheery fire in Cambridge. At least they were safe and warm. At least they would survive—

Even that assumption, though, was not without a certain hollow ring. Philip had received no further letters from his wife since the last one in the summertime.

Thinking about that for very long was too much on top of everything else: the army’s failure; his bleeding foot; his ferocious, unremitting hunger—

Dinner for the night had consisted of the one, green-tinged chunk of bread remaining in his haversack.

He shifted position under the soaked canvas, trying to get comfortable. The wind roared across the plateau, carrying the sound of officers shouting orders, horses and wagons crisscrossing the high ground. Units of the Continental army were still arriving.

Next to Philip, Royal began to cry again. Without even thinking about it, Philip reached over with one stiffened hand and patted the younger man’s shoulder, trying to comfort him.

On Philip’s left, Breen suddenly let out an assortment of curses. Then:

“Cap’n Webb said the general picked this place ’cause we could escape easy if we got attacked. Shit, you think Billy Howe’s gonna come out in this weather to bother with us? He’s gonna let us die in the goddamned place.”

“Shut up, Breen,” Philip said. “Try to sleep.”

“And wake up froze to death? Not me!” Breen hauled himself out from beneath the canvas, tramped away:

“I’m gonna squat under one of them pines.”

Philip might have done the same, but Royal Rothman seemed to be suffering an attack of the chills. His body convulsed for perhaps ten minutes. Philip held him with both arms, trying to transfer what warmth he could from his own body.

Finally the convulsions stopped. Royal drifted to sleep. Philip dozed a little himself. All at once, Royal started up:

“Where are we? I dreamed it was Boston—”

“Lie down,” Philip said. “I wish it was Boston too.”

Awake and miserable, Royal asked, “Does this place have any name at all?”

“Captain Webb said it’s called Valley Forge.”

Royal collapsed against him like a child, burrowing against Philip’s filthy coat and starting to sob again:

“I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t cry, it’s—not manly, but—I can’t help it—”

“Go ahead, Royal. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Christ, I’d cry too if I had any strength left.”

Philip pulled the soaked tent canvas up over his head as the rain started falling again.

By January, axemen felled enough timber for construction to start on a hut city on the plateau that took its name from a Quaker-owned iron works beside Valley Creek. The works had formerly supplied Washington’s army; the British had stopped in September to burn it out.

The commanding general, who had finally moved into a fieldstone house near the junction of the creek and the river, ordered regulation army huts built by each unit. Philip and the men of his company spent their days laboriously putting up theirs according to the approved design: fourteen by sixteen feet, with a rise of six and a half feet to the steep timbered roof. They had a chimney chinked with cat and clay, but no windows.

And no meat, other than an infrequent issue of salt pork.

And no yellow soap to bathe their filthy, infected, foul-smelling feet.

And no drinking water save what they could carry from the partially frozen creek.

And no hope. Worst of all, no hope.

A knock at the hut door brought Breen’s head up where he lay dozing. Just as quickly, he lay down again and snored. Breen had spent three pence for a gill of peach brandy at the sutler’s. Philip had purchased a quart of vinegar instead.

One of the camp physicians had told him vinegar would keep his gums from bleeding; prevent his skin from bursting open with countless sores. Philip hated drinking the vile stuff. But the doctor had apparently been right. Breen wouldn’t waste his money on vinegar, and his already malodorous person had fallen prey to the scurvy. So had a good percentage of the eleven thousand men settled in for the winter in the hut city.

The knock came again, more insistently. With a disgusted sigh, Philip turned over the last of three fire-cakes heating on the stones next to the fireplace logs. That was their evening meal: peach brandy—or vinegar in Philip’s case—and flour mixed with water, then cooked till it hardened. Wind whined in the chimney, blowing smoke back in Philip’s face as he said:

“Will you see who’s there, Royal?”

The younger man nodded apathetically, shuffled to the door on rag-covered feet. He opened the door to admit a gust of snow—and Captain Webb, who hardly resembled an officer any longer.

Webb was hatless, white crystals powdering his hair. He wore an old padded blue dressing gown he’d adopted for warmth on night duty. In the distance, above the wind’s wail, Philip heard men bawling a contemptuous song around some campfire, to the tune of the marching air
Yankee Doodle:

“First we’ll take a pinch of snuff,

“And then a drink of water—”

Raising his head again, Breen focused his eyes until he identified their visitor. Then he passed wind, loudly.

Webb said, “I appreciate your gesture of respect.”

“Think nothin’ of it. You finally bringin’ us some replacements? Food would be too much to ask—”

“I’m hunting for cards and dice,” Webb snapped. “The general’s making an inspection tour this evening.”

“Likes to keep track of our luxurious livin’ conditions, does he?”

“For God’s sake, Breen, that doesn’t help anything.”

“Captain Webb’s right,” Philip put in. Breen shrugged, uncaring.

“You know how set against gaming the general is,” Webb said, too tired—as they all were—to worry about breaches of discipline and courtesy. “Some bunch of nabobs called a Committee of Conference rolled in from York this afternoon.”

“The Congress is sitting at York now, isn’t it?” Royal asked.

“Correct. The committee’s purpose is to inspect and improve on conditions here, if possible.”

Another oath from Breen indicated what he thought of the whole idea. The singers in the distance were repeating their chorus with an even nastier intonation to the final lines:

“And then we’ll say, How do you do?

“And that’s a Yankee supper!”

“That won’t be hard,” Philip said. “I swear to God, Captain, if we don’t get some decent food, there’ll be a riot like nobody’s ever seen before.”

“And clothing,” Royal added, pointing at his bandaged feet. The brown of dried blood shaded into the green of pus.

Philip hadn’t spoken idly. For days now, as the bitter January sleet and snow continued without letup, certain sections of the hut city had taken to chanting
“No meat! No meat!”
for half an hour every evening. The poison of incipient rebellion was spreading through the entire encampment.

“There’s nothing I can do about that tonight,” Webb told them. “I just want you to look reasonably sharp if the dignitaries come this way.”

“You know where you can put them dignitaries,” Breen said, farting again. “Will you shut the fuckin’ door before we freeze to death?”

Looking defeated, Captain Webb withdrew into the snowy darkness. Philip closed the door.

He almost said something to Breen about his discourtesy to the officer. But such talk wasn’t uncommon, and was seldom punished. Besides, Philip identified it for what it was: not a disease, but the symptom of a disease. The problem Henry Knox had predicted still plagued them. They were amateurs at war, and except for a few isolated victories now forgotten, they had performed badly. Untrained as soldiers, they could hardly be expected to behave like soldiers.

Philip had no answer for the problem. But he knew it could only grow worse unless something drastic happened.

Saying little to each other, Breen, Royal and Philip ate their hard, blackened fire-cakes. Moments later, Philip experienced one of his frequent attacks of nausea because of the hut’s almost insufferable stench. Their unwashed bodies, Royal’s diseased feet—and Breen’s stubborn refusal to expose himself to the winter air to urinate—created a stew of smells Philip could bear only so long. He drank another half cup of vinegar, put on his tattered coat and hurried out to the company street.

Head down, eyes slitted against the wind-whipped snow that had come at nightfall, he trudged aimlessly between the uniformly built log huts facing one another on both sides of the dirt avenue. The rows of huts were perhaps the only detail in all of Valley Forge that gave the encampment a semblance of order.

In the distance he saw an immense bonfire blazing near the artillery park where Henry Knox kept his cannon. He thought briefly of going to see his friend. But just as he did, he heard strident voices off to his left.

He peered between two huts, glimpsed lanterns a-bob in the next street. He thought he recognized the tall, angular figure of Washington, cloak flapping like wings at his shoulders. A party of officers and civilians had halted around the general. An argument was in progress.

Philip dodged between the huts, huddled against the logs, numb hands in his bottomless pockets. He heard one of the civilians say:

“—distressing and unbelievable filth, General. Corrective measures must be taken, and swiftly.”

Suddenly Washington snatched off his tricorn and slammed it against his right leg:

“Corrective measures, sir? Why don’t you gentlemen in Congress take corrective measures? Hire honest teamsters, instead of cheats who drain the brine from the salt pork barrels to lighten the load, then deliver us spoiled meat? Why don’t you hire men who can draw accurate maps? Half the supplies we’re sent never arrive because the drivers get lost for want of proper directions, and finally dump their grain sacks in empty fields to rot!”

Another member of the committee spoke up:

“Yes, those criticisms are fully merited. The Congress is aware—”

“I don’t give a damn whether they’re
aware,
I want to know what’s being done to change things!”

“We intend to return with a full report.”

“On the miserable state of affairs you’ve discovered?”

“Certainly we shall have to detail that, but—”

Another disgusted oath from Washington. “So instead of help for these brave men, I’ll receive remonstrances and more remonstrances. Well, let me assure you and all the gentlemen of the Congress—” Even above the singsong of the wind, his furious voice could be heard a good distance. “—it’s a much easier and less distressing thing to draw remonstrances in a comfortable room by a good fire than to occupy a cold, bleak hill and sleep under frost and snow. Some of my troops are not yet hutted—you tell
them
that the immediate result of your visit will be a report instead of food and blankets!”

Yanking his cloak across his chest to protect his blue and buff coat from the pelt of the snow, Washington glared at his critics:

“And where is that German officer you promised for my staff?”

Another of the Congressmen said, “Baron von Steuben is having his credentials examined by one of our committees.”

“To perdition with your committees! I’ve heard his credentials and they’re more than satisfactory. Get him into this camp with a suitable rank and ready to assist me. I need someone who can teach these men proper military drill! At least they can learn something while they’re starving to death!”

“We shall do everything possible to expedite—”

The rest was blurred as the big general stamped past the front of the hut and out of sight, followed by the Congressmen and his officers with the lanterns.

Shivering by the hut wall, Philip thought about the reference to a German. Another of those volunteers?

Some, like Gil, had proved themselves brave and able; effective additions to the army. Others were held in contempt. But it was interesting to hear Washington tell a Congressional committee that he and his own staff lacked the ability to shape the Continental and militia units into a cohesive, well-trained force capable of fighting in the best European style.

Many at Valley Forge still called Washington a poor leader in combat. Yet Philip had heard few openly declare that they would refuse to continue to serve under him. Specific complaints were always directed at Washington’s senior officers, or the Congress. The general himself somehow escaped most of the direct criticism.

But Philip could understand that. The man was an aristocrat; yet he cared about the welfare of the ordinary soldier. He had a rare forthrightness when it came to admitting and correcting his own mistakes, and the lowest private was aware of it. Perhaps that was why Washington was admired even when his battlefield ability was questioned. Perhaps that was why, despite almost intolerable conditions, Valley Forge hadn’t yet succumbed to insurrection and mass desertion—

Returning to the hut, Philip settled down to sleep. As he was drifting off, he speculated about the German officer. A baron, they’d said. The Germans were generally considered excellent in the field. The hired Hessians were respected, even if they were openly cursed and universally hated. Now Washington was getting his own German. It remained to be seen whether the man could accomplish anything.