24
“THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN”
To aid in the tempering process, God sent as unlikely an agent as Squanto had been to the Pilgrims—a ruddy-cheeked, short, stout, bemedaled German with a passion for drill and a twinkle in his eye. This was Friedrich Wilhelm Augustus Baron von Steuben, a former captain in the Prussian army and a staff officer of Frederick the Great. Well recommended by Ben Franklin in Paris, von Steuben volunteered his services to the American cause.
General Washington must have sighed. How many European officers, caught between wars with time on their hands, had been sent to him by well-meaning friends? They had trouble fitting in and expected to be treated deferentially, which did not happen in the young Republic’s army.
But unlike others, Franklin was wise enough not to send him fools. The young Marquis de Lafayette had proven invaluable. And this roly-poly Prussian just might be, as well. They would soon see; the General assigned him the task of making a professional army out of the Continentals.1
Von Steuben proceeded with typical Prussian thoroughness. Because there was no drill instruction manual, he set about writing one and had it translated into English. Then he worked with one company of soldiers until they responded with crisp precision to the most complex commands. Right oblique, counter-march, flank left, wheel right. . . . When they did exactly what he wanted, exactly the way he wanted them to—forming, breaking, and re-forming on the double—he was able to use this company to show the others what was possible. Soon the noncommissioned officers were able to take over, and by April whole regiments could be moved quickly and efficiently anywhere on the battlefield.
In musketry, von Steuben’s memorized precision was badly needed. When it came to firing volleys, it had often taken the Continental Army more than a minute to fire, reload, and be ready to fire again. But hours of practice began to cut the time between shots. “Prime firing pans . . . charge muskets . . . remove ramrods ”—there were twelve steps to firing a musket, and if, in the heat of battle, one step was overlooked, there would be a gap in the volley. (There were instances of soldiers forgetting to remove their ramrods from their barrels and actually firing them at the enemy. Although a flying ramrod had been known to kill a man, the soldier’s musket was useless after that.) By the time spring came, von Steuben had drilled the troops to the point where they could produce a tight volley every fifteen seconds.
Arising at 3:00 a.m. and appearing on the parade ground by sunrise, the Prussian was a demanding drillmaster. He had a saving sense of humor, however, and his oaths were frequently punctuated by laughter. When driven to distraction by the repeated mistakes of one company or another, he would swear at them in German till he was out of breath and then call on his interpreter to carry on in English.
His perseverance bore fruit. As March turned into April, the Continental army began to march as one. The General could not have been more pleased. Before von Steuben, it must have felt as if he was playing chess with only pawns—good for digging in and holding ground but unable to parry and thrust. Now he had a full assortment of moving pieces with which he could counter any maneuver the enemy cared to make. And the soldiers began to take pride in their newly acquired skills; indeed, that was more than a little responsible for their steadily improving morale.
From this time forth, Washington never needed to worry about another year-end enlistment lag; volunteers were now signing up for three-year tours. Regardless of the contracted length of their tour, the veterans of Valley Forge were in for the duration of the war and would not think of leaving until the job was done. And in coming years, when the hardest assignments came—the frontal attacks, the bayonet charges, the advance flanker details—the Valley Forge survivors were the ones invariably chosen.
On the first of May, intelligence reached the American camp that France, at last convinced that the Continental Army could stand up to the full might of the British military establishment, was coming into the war on the side of America. The dark night was over; the French now were allies. With that news, volunteers and supplies began pouring in from all over the country. And now, thanks to Valley Forge, there was an army—a real army—to receive them.
Historians generally credit Washington’s strong leadership as having held the army together at Valley Forge. But Washington himself, knowing it was a miracle that they were still intact, credited God. In announcing the French decision to his joyous troops, he declared:
It having pleased the Almighty Ruler of the universe propitiously to defend the cause of the United American States, and finally by raising us up a powerful friend among the princes of the earth, to establish our liberty and independence upon lasting foundations, it becomes us to set apart a day for gratefully acknowledging the Divine goodness, and celebrating the important event which we owe to His benign interposition.2
In Philadelphia, less than two weeks later, a farewell party was held for General Howe—now Sir William, as like his brother, he too had been knighted. He had asked to be recalled and had turned his command over to Sir Henry Clinton. It was a costume fête, and in extravagance it rivaled the court of Louis XIV, showing more imagination than the entire British Expeditionary Force had exhibited at any time since coming to America.
It was followed by new orders from London, returning Clinton to New York. Because the few ships available were crammed with Tory refugees, Clinton’s troops and artillery would have to go by land, back up through New Jersey. That meant a long, strung-out column with exposed flanks.
It was an attack-commander’s dream: to hit from the side, with a sharp, compacted force. The damage they could inflict was incalculable. They could cut communications and supply lines, and in the chaos and confusion—known today as the fog of war—they could hit again and again before the British column could re-form. It would be the retreat from Concord all over again, but on a much broader scale. And now they would be ready.
But when the British commenced their march on the morning of June 18, there was dissension in Washington’s war council. His second in command, General Charles Lee (recently returned in a prisoner exchange), was “passionately opposed” to an attack on Clinton. To Lee, who at every opportunity cut Washington down behind his back, it was appalling naïveté to believe that Americans could stand up to British regulars. The thing to do, he repeatedly counseled, was to do nothing, just stay where they were and see what developed. And some junior and even senior officers came under the spell of this seasoned professional.
Washington then turned to ask the opinion of a young and fiercely loyal brigadier general who had been with him all through New Jersey and Valley Forge. “Fight, sir!” was Anthony Wayne’s reply; and Nathanael Greene, Lafayette, and John Cadwalader all closed ranks behind their Commander in Chief. But five precious days would pass before Washington would shake off the hypnotic grip of Lee’s prestige and inform the officer corps that they were going into action immediately.
The opportunity for a staggering, even killing, blow from the flank was gone, but they could still catch the Redcoats and deliver an attack to the rear of their column if they moved quickly. Once again their unseen Ally seemed to be doing His part; the weather suddenly turned almost tropical, with hundred-degree heat and sudden downpours, which only increased the humidity. The British column was strung out over twelve miles and was barely dragging along, because all the wells along the way had been filled and the bridges blown in anticipation of their return to New York.
Military etiquette dictated that Charles Lee be given field command of the attack force—which he spurned as unworthy of him. Vastly relieved, Washington gratefully turned the command over to Lafayette and Wayne, whom he knew he could count on to press the attack. And at last the Continental Army swung out of Valley Forge and onto the trail of the British.
This was a different army than had come down that road six months before, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in the snow. Now there was a sharpness to the beat of the field drums and a bite to the music of the fifes, which added an inch or two to each stride—and an extra half-mile to the distance covered in an hour. And when the pipers played “Yankee Doodle,” the soldiers grinned and their grips tightened on the stocks of long-barreled rifles. As the sergeants called out marching orders and counted cadence, there was a fresh snap to the response. The Americans were an army now. In training and toughness they could go toe to toe with the Redcoats, or anyone else, as they were about to demonstrate.
They caught the British at Monmouth, and Charles Lee, who had changed his mind and now demanded that he be given the field command after all, permitted Wayne to engage the enemy. But the moment the British turned to fight, Lee ordered a general retreat.
Furious, Washington spurred to the front of the column, relieved Lee of command, and rescued his forces from impending disaster. Back and forth he rode on Nelson, calmly urging the men to re-form, giving them the example of his own bravery under fire. No soldier could look at him and not take heart. The troops stopped, turned, and fought the British to a standstill, causing them to grudgingly fall back. There was no clear-cut victory at Monmouth that day, but from that time forth, the British never again made the mistake of underestimating their opponents.
In the wake of the British withdrawal, the military command of Philadelphia was turned over to Arnold. The name of Benedict Arnold has become synonymous with the depths of betrayal and infamy, as familiar to Americans as the name of Judas Iscariot. Yet with the exception of Washington himself, Arnold was the most courageous and intrepid field commander in American uniform, which only makes the well-known tale the more tragic.
Part of Arnold’s story is pertinent to the role that Divine intervention played in the Revolutionary scheme of things. Arnold’s secret liaison with the British was Clinton’s adjutant, Major John André. Disguised as a civilian (and hence, by military definition, a spy), André had the bad “luck” to encounter an American patrol as he was about to reenter the British lines above New York. Mistaking the patrol for British, André let slip that he was a British officer. He was immediately searched, and in the heel of his shoe were discovered secret plans for the fortifications of West Point, along with a pass signed by Arnold, the commander of the fort.
The officer in charge, failing to put two and two together, sent André under guard to explain to Arnold just how he happened to be in possession of the pass and the plans. At this point, Major Ben Tallmadge, Washington’s chief of intelligence, by “coincidence” happened to be in the area and heard about the capture of the apparent spy. He did put two and two together, for he had been privately concerned about Arnold for some time. Although he was too late to stop the news from getting to Arnold, he did have his men hold the spy, and when he interrogated him, it all came out.
Arnold narrowly escaped, but West Point was saved. Had the patrol not met André, had he not mistaken them for British soldiers, had the one man most likely to comprehend quickly the enormity of the plot not been in precisely the right place at the right time, the outcome could have been quite different.
In announcing the discovery of Arnold’s infamy to the army, Washington said: “Treason of the blackest dye was yesterday discovered. . . . The providential train of circumstances which led to it affords the most convincing proofs that the liberties of America are the object of Divine protection.”3 A poignant epilogue to this sad narrative is that Arnold’s last request, as he lay dying in England, was to be dressed in his American uniform.
Monmouth marked the last time that the two main bodies of the British and American armies would be within striking distance of one another. For the next two years, the actions would mostly involve detachments and would often be indecisive—fluid campaigns that swept the South and involved such places as Cowpens, King’s Mountain, and Guilford Courthouse. It was a frustrating war for both sides, since there never seemed to be enough time or troops or supplies to decide the issue. The Americans were usually outnumbered and therefore in the familiar role of drawing the enemy ever further from their bases of supply.
Of all of the instances of Divine intervention during the war, one of the most dramatic occurred after the battle of Cowpens in South Carolina. On January 17, 1781, Colonel Banastre Tarleton’s large detachment from Lord Cornwallis’s army had been soundly defeated by General Daniel Morgan, who took about five hundred British prisoners. Morgan immediately began to withdraw toward the Catawba River to join up with General Nathanael Greene’s division. Their ultimate goal was to get across the Dan River into friendly Virginia territory. But they were facing a winter march across more than two hundred miles of Carolina countryside, which was honeycombed with rain-swollen creeks and two major rivers—the Catawba and the Yadkin. There were no bridges, so they were dependent on finding sufficiently shallow fords.
News of Tarleton’s defeat sent Lord Cornwallis into a fury. Destroying his heavy baggage, he set out in hot pursuit of Morgan’s small army, hoping to catch them at the ford of the Catawba. But he arrived at sunset, two hours too late. Confident that he could easily destroy the Americans in the morning, he decided to delay crossing until daylight.
During the night, however, a heavy rain swelled the water level to flood stage, rendering it impassable. Forty-eight hours would pass before the river subsided, allowing him to get across. Had the river’s rise occurred a few hours earlier, Morgan would have been trapped and his army annihilated.
And that was only the first of the river miracles.
Both armies pushed hard for the Yadkin River in North Carolina. The Continentals reached the western bank of the Yadkin late in the evening of February 2. But rather than halt his entire army for the night, as the pursuing Cornwallis had done, Morgan pushed his horsemen across the river at midnight. The rest of his small army followed in boats at dawn, apparently aided by an overnight drop in the water level.
When Lord Cornwallis’s advance units reached the river bank a few hours later, they could plainly see General Morgan’s troops forming up on the opposite bank to march off. But in the brief interval between the last of Morgan’s boats crossing and Cornwallis’s arrival, the waters had once again risen so fast that the fords were impassable, and the Americans had taken all the available boats.4
Sir Henry Clinton, Cornwallis’s second in command, would later express the British frustration in his memoirs: “Here the Royal Army was again stopped by a sudden rise of the waters, which had only just fallen [almost miraculously] to let the enemy over, who could not else have eluded Lord Cornwallis’ grasp, so close was he up to their rear.”5
Marching rapidly up his side of the Yadkin, Cornwallis finally found a shallow ford and got his army across. This maneuver actually put his army closer to the final fords of the Dan River than Morgan’s. If he could get there first, he could prevent the American army from reaching safety in Virginia.
Meanwhile, Daniel Morgan had become so worn down by rheumatism and exhaustion that he resigned his command, and General Greene replaced him with Maryland officer of the line O. H. Williams, who proved more than capable.
The two armies raced for the Dan, moving in parallel forced marches, sometimes at the incredible rate of about thirty miles a day. Williams allowed his men only six hours sleep every two days, and the Americans met the challenge, gradually pulling ahead of the British.
At one point, the British altered their route of march, and their advance unit closed to only four miles behind the American army’s rear. Only a gallant delaying action by “Light Horse Harry” Lee’s cavalry enabled the small army to escape. After three more days of skirmishes and desperate marches, the American army reached the banks of the Dan just before sunset on February 13. Normally fordable here, the river was again much too high. But by the grace of God, advance riders had gathered all available boats, and by midnight every last soldier and horse had been ferried across to the safety of Virginia.
Blocked for the third time by a flooded river in his path, with all boats on the far shore, a disgusted Lord Cornwallis finally abandoned the pursuit and turned his army back toward Hillsborough, North Carolina.6
Even when the British were able to inflict defeats on the Americans, which happened fairly often, the problem was that the Patriots refused to stay defeated. General Greene summed up the war: “We fight, get beat, rise and fight again.”7 The fact that they kept rising to fight again finally began to take the heart out of the British war effort. The Americans gave every indication that they were prepared to go on fighting, and getting beat, and rising and fighting again until the Lord returned.
That kind of perseverance wore the British down, and they began to make mistakes. The biggest one was an accumulation of misjudgments, human errors, and the handiwork of God.
In the fall of 1781, hoping to be evacuated by the British fleet under Admiral Graves and transported in New York to rejoin Clinton, Cornwallis had brought his Southern campaign to a close. He had fought well, and his six thousand troops had done all that could be expected of them. Yet now he was here in Yorktown, and the fox he was going to bag five summers before had him under siege. No matter, the Royal Navy would soon be taking them off.
But Graves exhibited the same shortcoming that so often characterized the British throughout the War for Independence: tardiness. Slow in getting under way, Graves arrived at Chesapeake Bay to evacuate Cornwallis’s army—one day too late. The French fleet under de Grasse had gotten there first and had put the cork in Cornwallis’s bottle. Graves immediately formed a line of battle, and the French came out to meet him rather than risk being trapped in the bay.
As they sailed out of the Chesapeake, beating into an offshore headwind, they were easy targets for the British. But Graves failed to press his advantage and allowed the French time to form their own battle line. As they closed, there was confusion in the signals along the British line, with the result that the French were able to outmaneuver them and inflict substantial damage. Graves finally decided to break off and return to New York, to refit his ships—thereby sealing Cornwallis’s fate.
The end was now inevitable, and both sides knew it. The Americans brought their heaviest artillery to bear on Yorktown and the British lines. On the night of October 14, 1781, four hundred Frenchmen stormed Redoubt #9, and four hundred Americans simultaneously stormed Redoubt #10. (The charge was led by one of Washington’s staff officers, a young lieutenant colonel named Alexander Hamilton.) In fifteen minutes of furious hand-to-hand fighting, it was over. The Americans made these two British outposts the right anchor of their new siege line, which brought their cannon into nearly point-blank range.
To escape the ever-tightening American noose, Cornwallis had one last, desperate gambit. He would employ the same surprise tactic that Washington had used to extricate the Continental Army from Brooklyn Heights. On the night of October 16, under cover of darkness, he began ferrying his troops across the York River in small boats. But now, instead of being favored by the elements, this small-boat evacuation was disrupted by them.
Cornwallis had actually succeeded in getting a third of his army across undetected when a sudden violent storm came out of nowhere, driving the boats downriver and making further passage impossible. By the time it subsided, too many hours had been lost to complete the evacuation, so Cornwallis ordered the troops on the far side of the river to be brought back. As the last boats returned at daybreak, they came under the heaviest American artillery fire yet. As Tarleton put it, “Thus expired the last hope of the British Army.”8
That morning as the sun rose, the newly dug forward batteries opened fire with a relentless bombardment. Cornwallis raised the white flag before noon.
Doctor Thacher was there:
The whole of our works are now mounted with cannon and mortars. Not less than one hundred pieces of heavy ordnance have been in continual operation during the last twenty-four hours. The whole peninsula trembles under the incessant thunderings of our infernal machines. We have leveled some of their works in ruins and silenced their guns. They have almost ceased firing. We are so near as to have a distinct view of the dreadful havoc and destruction of their works.9
Although in other theaters the war would drag on for another two years, Washington and Cornwallis both sensed that it was now essentially over. Formal surrender was set for two o’clock on the afternoon of the nineteenth. In an open field behind Yorktown, the American and French forces formed two long lines, down the middle of which the British were to march in a column of fours. The French, with fresh uniforms and new, black leather leggings, looked resplendent in the soft October sunlight of a warm fall day. The Americans, in buckskins, homespun shirts or faded blue-and-white Continentals, seemed more like a militia than an army, except that their lines were just as straight, their posture as erect.
Silence hung over the field as a gentle breeze stirred leaves that were just beginning to turn color. In the distance came the sound of the British field drums—slurred, erratic, not at all sharp, as they had once been. The drummers, like many of the other soldiers, had prepared themselves with rum. The officers came first, on horseback.
Cornwallis, it turned out, could not bring himself to turn over his sword to Washington in person and so had pleaded “indisposition” and instructed his deputy to do so. Washington refused to deal with Cornwallis’s deputy and sent Benjamin Lincoln, his deputy of comparable rank, to accept the sword.
When the soldiers came, it was to the popular tune of “The World Turned Upside Down” (as indeed it was). Down the files they came, some angry, some weeping; the Americans said not a word but looked straight ahead. Six years seemed to pass with the slow tread of the infantry and grenadiers. Lexington, Concord, Bunker Hill, Dorchester Heights, Brooklyn Heights, Trenton, Princeton, Saratoga,Valley Forge, Monmouth, the Southern Campaign, Yorktown . . . It seemed longer, a lifetime at least.
“Ground muskets!” each British officer commanded his soldiers when they reached the end of the file, and they did so sullenly, flinging their Brown Besses on the pile of discarded weapons in front of them. Some of the British were seen to crack the butts of their muskets on the ground as they threw them on a pile. Some of the regimental musicians staved in the heads of their drums.
When it was finally finished, a tremendous roar of joy went up from the Americans—a roar that would be heard throughout the country and around the world. There were prayers that day, too—not as loud perhaps, but which carried much farther.
Washington ordered a thanksgiving service to be held the day after the surrender: “The Commander in Chief earnestly recommends that the troops not on duty should universally attend with that seriousness of deportment and gratitude of heart which the recognition of such reiterated and astonishing interposition of Providence demands of us.”10
This was a theme that would be very much on his mind in later days. As he would write to Brigadier Nelson, “The hand of Providence has been so conspicuous in all this, that he must be worse than an infidel that lacks faith, and more than wicked, that has not gratitude enough to acknowledge his obligations.” Then his sense of humor slipped out: “But, it will be time enough for me to turn preacher, when my present appointment ceases; and therefore, I shall add no more on the Doctrine of Providence.”11
The most fitting word on Yorktown was spoken by one of the most famous ministers of that day, Timothy Dwight. In a sermon “occasioned by the capture of the British Army under the command of Earl Cornwallis,” he preached on Isaiah 59:18–19: “According to their deeds, accordingly he will repay, fury to his adversaries . . . to the islands he will repay recompence. So shall they fear the name of the LORD from the west, and his glory from the rising of the sun. When the enemy shall come in like a flood, the Spirit of the LORD shall lift up a standard against him” (KJV).
In the sermon itself, he said:
Who, but must remember with hymns of the most fervent praise, how God judged our enemies, when we had no might against the great company that came against us, neither knew we what to do? But our eyes were upon Him. Who, but must give glory to the infinite Name, when he calls to mind that our most important successes, in almost every instance, have happened when we were peculiarly weak and distressed? While we mark the Divine hand in the illustrious event we are now contemplating, can we fail to cry out, “Praise the Lord, for He is good, for His mercy endureth forever.”12
Two years later, with news of the peace treaty finally arrived, the time had come for Washington’s senior officers to bid farewell to their Commander in Chief. They gathered at Fraunce’s Tavern in lower Manhattan ten days after General Clinton and the Royal Army had quit the city. The senior officers of the Continental Army, dressed in the best uniforms that they could manage, seemed to have no interest in the sumptuous fare on the gleaming white tablecloth before them. There was a heaviness in the room, and halfhearted conversations died away into silence. They were awaiting the General, and Ben Tallmadge, now a lieutenant colonel, recorded the details.
The General arrived, prompt as always, and from his face, he was as deeply moved as any of them. Most of them had been with him since Valley Forge, and a few, like Henry Knox, had been with him from the beginning. But now it was over; this was the last time they would be together like this again.
Looking around and noticing that no one had approached the elegant buffet, with its several wines and choice of succulent meats, puddings, and pies, the General took a plate and absently helped himself to a small portion. Taking a glass of wine, he encouraged the others to do likewise. One or two moved to do as he had bid them, and then the General spoke to what was so heavy on all their hearts.
“With a heart full of gratitude,” he began, his voice breaking, “I now take leave of you.” He made a maximum effort to control his emotions. “I most devoutly wish that our latter days be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable.” He raised his glass, and one or two made a faltering attempt at a reply.
The General, his eyes glistening, spoke again. “I cannot come to each of you, but shall feel obliged if each of you will come and take me by the hand.”
The first to come to him was Henry Knox. The two men looked at one another and said nothing. The tears streaming down their faces said it all. They shook hands and parted. One by one, the remaining officers, among them old von Steuben, shook their Commander in Chief’s hand and silently parted.
Tallmadge wrote:
Such a scene of sorrow and weeping I had never before witnessed, and hope I may never be called to witness again. . . . Not a word was uttered to break the solemn silence . . . or to interrupt the tenderness of the scene. The simple thought that we were then about to part from the man who had conducted us through a long and bloody war, and under whose conduct the glory and independence of our country had been achieved, and that we would see his face no more in this world, seemed to me to be utterly unsupportable.13
The moment their farewells were completed, the General begged leave, and he departed, passing through a corps of light infantry at attention. He walked to the waterfront, where a barge waited to take him to the Jersey shore, and his officers followed behind him in saddened silence. A large crowd had gathered to wish him good-bye, and one wondered if his mind cast back to that bright June morning in Philadelphia in 1775 when a throng had gathered to wish Godspeed to the new Commander in Chief. As soon as he was seated, the barge cast off, and the tall figure in its stern raised his hat in a final farewell.
But the General’s ordeal of honor was not over. One more parting was required: the formal resignation of his commission before Congress. The government was now temporarily headquartered at Annapolis, Maryland (which fortunately was on his way to Mount Vernon). Thomas Mifflin, the same brigadier who had inadvertently withdrawn his covering troops from the line at Brooklyn Heights, was now President of Congress. He addressed the General with respect born of the awareness of the moment: “Sir, the United States, in Congress assembled, are prepared to receive your communications.”
The General rose and bowed to the members. From his pocket he drew a paper, which shook noticeably in his hand. He congratulated Congress, and then, speaking of the war, commended to them the officers who had served him so faithfully and well. At this point, he recalled some of the individuals who had performed with unusual distinction—Nathanael Greene, Daniel Morgan, Henry Lee, and of course his own staff.
He paused, and his emotions again threatened to overwhelm him. He now held the paper in front of him with both hands to quiet its trembling. “I consider it an indispensable duty to close this last solemn act of my official life by commending the interests of our dearest country to the protection of Almighty God, and of those who have superintendence of them to His holy keeping.”
The General’s voice caught, and there were many who could scarcely see the tall speaker through their own tears. “Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire from the great theatre of action, and bidding affectionate farewell to this august body under whose orders I have so long acted, I here offer my commission and take my leave of all the employments of public life.”
And so saying, from the inside breast pocket of his uniform coat, he drew forth his commission and handed it to President Mifflin. At last, nothing stood between him and Mount Vernon, far from the demands and pressures of public life.