Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Read online

  He caught a glimpse of General Charles Grey as the blanket of clouds, concealing the moon, parted for a moment. Tall, slender, and supremely fit, Grey’s presence was sensed—even in the cover of darkness. His whispered words carried self-confidence and command. The battle plan was his. This fight would be his, and Allen sensed that this man reveled in the moment.

  Allen, serving as one of the scouts for the attack, observed Grey from a respectful distance. With soldierly ardor, the general addressed the knot of officers surrounding him.

  “I want every man checked yet again,” Grey hissed sharply. “Flints are to be removed from all weapons except officers’ sidearms. If any enlisted man disobeys and fires his weapon, I will personally flog him. If any of you discharge your pistols before the attack is well joined, by God I will not only flog you, I will see you broken to the ranks and sent back to En gland in disgrace.

  “Do we understand each other?”

  There was a muffled chorus of assents.

  “Rejoin your commands and await the order to advance. Once this column begins to move, guide on the unit in front of you. Keep the formation tight. Do not lose contact with the line in front of you. Once the attack is launched, fan your men out as we discussed earlier and then in with the bayonet and finish the bastards. No one is to escape. No one!

  “Rejoin your men.”

  The officers scattered and dispersed into the blackness. The clattering of a sword sheath broke the unnerving stillness.

  “Who was that?” Grey snarled.

  There was a momentary pause.

  “Captain Neilson, sir I, he has fallen,”

  “You are relieved of command, sir. Stay to the rear. I will deal with you tomorrow.”

  There was no reply.

  “Officers, drop your sword sheaths,” Grey added.

  The order had been given earlier, but some were reluctant to comply, their scabbards inlaid with gold were worth a pretty penny. Neilson would pay far more in terms of shame.

  Grey turned to face the men gathered around Allen.

  “You men know your orders.”

  Each man quickly whispered his orders, to deploy to the left of the flank, to the right, to move ahead and secure the several farmsteads in their path of advance. Finally, it was Allen’s turn.

  “I am to stay with the prisoner, sir, to insure he does not try to escape.”

  “And if he gives false directions?”

  Allen hesitated.

  “I will kill him myself,” came a whispered reply. It was muttered by a captain who had beloved and esteemed recently joined their ranks. John André, was as a soldier, a poet, a duelist, and above all else, a gentleman with courage. As part of a prisoner exchange, he was recently assigned to act as a liaison for Grey during the attack.

  “I will see to it, sir,” Allen interjected.

  He looked over at the prisoner, a civilian blacksmith who had come to their camp earlier in the day to report that a division of rebel troops, under the command of Anthony Wayne, was encamped near Paoli Tavern. That was already known, but the blacksmith carried the additional information that the men were demoralized after the drubbing they had received at the Battle of Brandywine, fought nine days ago. He reported that many were grumbling about deserting, cursing Washington and Wayne. Drunkenness was rampant and his own personal grievance was that they had looted his barn, insulted his wife, and threatened to loot and burn his forge. He added that they were keeping poor watch; the men were drinking gin and corn liquor even while on picket duty. That was enough to spur Grey to action.

  The blacksmith, however, never expected the next turn of events. He had been “volunteered” to lead this midnight attack column, and had openly wept when ordered to do so, crying that he was only a civilian, had done his duty to the Crown, and should be let go.

  The burly man was trembling, stifling back sobs as the soldiers around him prepared to go forward.

  Allen went to his side.

  “You heard the general,” he whispered.

  “Why? I did my duty.”

  “Listen to me,” Allen whispered. “There is no escaping it now. You are in this to the end. Once the fighting starts I will let you go, but if you try to bolt, my orders are to run you through.”

  He hesitated, looking over his shoulder at Captain André.

  “And if I don’t, he will.”

  “You’re not one of them,” the blacksmith whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You sound like you’re from Jersey.”

  Allen did not reply for a moment. The man had a good ear for accents and guessed right.

  “Yes. Trenton.”

  “Why are you with them?”

  “I could ask why are you with us,” Allen snapped.

  “I was only doing my duty. I am not a soldier, though.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “If my neighbors see me with you tonight, they’ll burn me out.”

  “Not if we win,” Allen replied coldly, knowing it to be true.

  With Brandywine and the utter rout of the rebel army, political feelings in the countryside around Philadelphia were in upheaval. More than a few were already Loyalists, and in the days before the fight, as some of the undisciplined rabble serving with Washington took to foraging for food, feelings had shifted even more. After the victory, many were now hanging the Union Jack in front of their homes.

  For Allen, it was a source of intense inner confusion. He had joined the Loyalist cause a year ago, after his brothers Jonathan and James had run off to join the rebels, when the war was being fought near New York. James had deserted and was now back home running the family tannery and store. Jonathan, though, poor Jonathan had stayed with the rebels and died the evening after the battle for Trenton.

  Taken prisoner along with the Hessians, Allen had been allowed by the rebels to help carry his brother back to their encampment…and held him as he died from exhaustion and pneumonia. By his side was their childhood friend, Peter Wellsley.

  The following day, Peter took Allen to General Washington and appealed for his release in exchange for the sacrifice of his brother.

  Allen was now one of the very few serving the Crown who had accompanied Washington, talked with him, and taken a measure of the man. Though he could never embrace Washington’s cause, he nevertheless could respect the man for his personal integrity. Washington readily granted Wellsley’s appeal, saying that it was a fair exchange to a family who had lost a son that had served with valor.

  Washington tried to press him for some details of British positions, which Allen respectfully refused to answer. The general immediately desisted, though he offered the opportunity to join their cause, which Allen refused as well. The general had then made him swear that he would reveal nothing of what he had seen or heard while within their ranks and let him go.

  A week later, when the rebels returned to Trenton, Allen left his family behind, rejoined the ranks, and reported to General Grey. Grey asked the same questions Washington had, and again he refused to answer, saying he had given his oath. Rather than enrage the supposedly hot-blooded Grey, the general clapped him on the shoulder, saying he carried the proper honor of an Englishman and assigned him to his staff as a liaison to Loyalists.

  So now he stood, keeping careful watch on a terrified blacksmith who was in way over his head with this war. He had, without doubt, slipped through the lines to try and curry favor, assuming that in another day his village would be occupied…. He had never bargained for this.

  “For your own sake,” Allen whispered, “you better guide us correctly. Are you sure you can do that?”

  “I grew up here, I know every field and woodlot like the back of my hand,” the man whispered in reply, voice trembling.

  “For God’s sake, don’t try to play false or run.”

  He nodded back to the regular British officer who was huddled with Grey.

  “That man hates colonials and will run you through like a dog if you tr
y to take off.”

  The terrified blacksmith did not reply. André stepped away from Grey to join the two.

  “Forward, and you better lead us straight in,” André announced.

  “He will,” Allen offered.

  The three set off and seconds later André could hear the whispered command for the column to follow.

  No matter how hard they tried, a thousand men stepping off into an attack could not be totally silent. There was a clatter as someone apparently tripped or dropped his musket, muted curses, and the sound of boots scuffing across the stubble of the recently mowed hay field.

  Light infantry formed most of the column, supported by a second column behind them, the famed and rightly feared Scottish Black Watch.

  Crossing the open field, the blacksmith led them down into a hollow. Fording a shallow stream a dozen feet wide and only several inches deep, the column slowed for a moment as the advance churned the ground into a morass, slowing the rear of the attacking force. They moved by the oblique to the right, angling across the next field and then experienced several moments of confusion as the attacking force made its way through a farmer’s woodlot, which the blacksmith stated would conceal their advance.

  Allen looked back over his shoulder several times. Light from the rising moon occasionally broke through the thick veil of scudding clouds, revealing the men as they advanced. He could only hope that the pickets were indeed drunk or foolish enough to have campfires. Gazing into a fire for just a few seconds would blind a man’s night vision for several minutes afterward.

  The blacksmith muttered to himself, repeating the Lord’s Prayer over and over again.

  “Be quiet there,” André finally groaned, “or you won’t need to pray, you will be able to explain it to God personally.”

  Emerging out of the woodlot, Allen could see a glow on the horizon, easily recognized by any soldier as the…campfires of an opposing line.

  “Where are their pickets?” It was General Grey, who arrived to join them.

  “The what?” the blacksmith gasped.

  “Their scouts, the guards!” Allen hissed.

  “Over there, I think. I saw them posted on the road.”

  He waved vaguely to their right.

  “Just keep moving, but, by God, if this is a trap, you will be the first to die,” Grey snapped, and turned back.

  “Skirmishers and dragoons forward, deploy fifty yards ahead,” Grey whispered, pointing toward the glowing fires, and seconds later a swarm of light infantry sprinted forward in advance of the main column.

  They were now halfway across the open field. The clouds parted again, illuminating a low rise ahead. It was the perfect location for forward pickets to be in position. Grey caught glimpses of the dozen or so mounted dragoons, crouched low in their saddles, cresting the rise.

  And then the darkness was cut by the flash of a musket—a snap of light followed a second later by two more, and the crack of rifle fire echoed across the field.

  “In on them, my lads!” Grey roared. “In and after them!”

  “If this is a trap…,” Andre repeated, glaring at the blacksmith who stood stock-still and terrified.

  The column behind them broke into an exhilarating run. Allen turned back and saw the glint of leveled bayonets and a wall of men charging toward them.

  “Come on,” Allen cried. He dared to lay a hand on a superior officer, and push him forward.

  André hesitated for only an instant, his sword poised as if to stab the blacksmith, but then turned to join the charge.

  “You, for God’s sake, lie down!” Allen cried, shoving the blacksmith forward. “Just lie down and claim later…”

  He didn’t have time to explain further or to offer advice for this poor soul, who, if found out, would likely find himself at the end of a rope if the rebels won, and at the end of a rope as well if he had played false to the Crown.

  The man collapsed, almost as if shot, and lay on the ground quivering. Allen felt a measure of pity as he left the man behind, racing to keep ahead of the wall of bayonets. Reaching the low crest, he saw the bodies of the unfortunate advance pickets; their campfire, dug into the ground in an attempt at concealment, was still glowing hot. Several of the light infantry skirmishers were bayoneting the bodies, one still alive and shrieking for mercy.

  The column reached the top of the hill and began to spread out as ordered. From this position, the men had an unobstructed view of the enemy encampment directly ahead, along the edge of the woods. The men sprang to their feet in confusion, clearly silhouetted by the flames of their campfires. As if with one voice, the advancing column, let loose with wild shouts of battle lust. The sharp battle cries of the Black Watch were terrifying, even to Allen.

  The charge swept straight into the rebel camp and the slaughter began.

  “My God, what is that?”

  General Anthony Wayne turned in his saddle. Three shots had come from his right. Throughout the night and the day before, rumors had inundated him that an enemy column was nearby. Repeatedly he had tried to push scouts and mounted vedettes forward, only to have them driven back in by the damned British light infantry.

  It had been a bitter week since the disaster at Brandywine, as various parts of the army attempted to hold the approaches to Philadelphia. His own position was to hold the advanced position on the road through Paoli and await “developments.” Caution demanded him to pull back two miles during the day.

  He had not slept in two days, constantly riding out to check the picket lines. He was looking for an opening he could push into—take some prisoners and gain intelligence. His men were exhausted from the battle and the frustrating days of retreat, maneuver, and then falling back yet again.

  Most of his command were encamped forward of the Paoli Tavern, his headquarters, while even now he moved with a small column along the flank, responding to rumors of an impending attack from that direction.

  The shots sounded more like rifle fire than the heavier, duller boom of musketry.

  He looked imploringly at his staff, repeating the question.

  “What is that?”

  No one spoke.

  And then more shots sliced the black night, and, only seconds later, a nerve-rending cheer, more like a shrieking—the distinctive cry of the Black Watch resounded.

  “Merciful God!” was all he could gasp, as he savagely reined his horse about and raced back toward his main encampment.

  “Oh God! God!” Allen gasped, trying to back up, jerking his sword back and out of the guts of the man he had just impaled.

  He was a veteran of half a dozen skirmishes and two major battles, but until this moment he had never really known if he had killed a man. This time the evidence was before him, so close that the convulsive screams of his victim, and the vomitted blood splashed into Allen’s face.

  He had stormed into the rebel camp at the front of the charge, trying to keep pace with André. And then this man, this man he was killing, came bolting out of a wigwam and all but thrust himself straight onto Allen’s sword in his blind panic.

  The man’s eyes shone in the moonlight, wide, terrified, his open mouth a black hole contorted by his screams.

  With one hand he clutched Allen’s jacket, with the other he feebly waved a knife about; with one slash reopened a wound on Allen’s left arm. While still clutching the hilt of his sword with his right hand, Allen used his left to grasp the arm that (or) which was holding the blade. It was like trying to restrain a child, there was no strength in his enemy now, just a terrifying gasping as he started to sag, but the blade was still lodged in the man’s stomach, and, try as he could, he could not extract it.

  He was screaming as well, cursing, crying, oblivious to all that was around him until he saw André striding toward him, pistol raised and cocked.

  The dying rebel saw him as well, and now tried to push back from Allen, whimpering, his cries like that of a girl, which filled Allen with even more horror, till he wondered if indeed his v
ictim was a woman caught up in this madness.

  André pressed the pistol to the man’s brow and pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening, the ball tore off the top of the skull. The body collapsed, and André put his foot on the man’s chest and, grabbing hold of Allen’s right wrist, pulled back hard.

  The blade slipped out with a grating noise of steel against bone.

  “Never thrust upwards into the chest!” André shouted, “The blade usually gets stuck.”

  Allen stood there dumbstruck, looking down at the mutilated body.

  “Come on!” André shouted, grabbing Allen by the shoulder, “keep moving or it will be you that gets it.”

  He had seen many a man die in this last year but this was the first time that he had looked into the eyes of someone he was killing, the first time blood had been coughed into his face. A sudden wave of nausea flooded his body as he choked back the taste of vomit in his throat.

  “Come on!” André screamed, urging him along.

  A wigwam shelter set into the woods was ablaze. Men were inside, screaming in anguish, while at the entry half a dozen light infantrymen stood with bayonets poised, shouting for them to come out. One man burst out and the light infantry fell upon him, stabbing and stabbing again. Another came out to the same terror.

  Two more tried to fight their way out and were slaughtered in turn.

  “For God’s sake,” Allen screamed. “Prisoners.”

  His cry was ignored as the light infantry stood ready, taunting the men who were burning inside to come out.

  “Stop them!” Allen cried. He started to run over, but André grabbed him.

  “You can’t stop it!” André shouted. “Their blood is up! You can’t stop it.”

  Allen, dumbfounded, looked around as dozens of wigwams burned, and at nearly every one, men were fighting with terrible desperation to escape.