New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [159]
“Saratoga sends the signal,” John Master judged. “It shows that, however many troops the British field, there will always be local militias to outnumber them. And still more important, it tells the only people who really matter, that the Americans can prevail.”
“What people are those?” Abigail asked.
“The French.”
If Saratoga was a cause for Patriot rejoicing, James could see little sign of it in Washington’s army that December. Congress had moved out of Philadelphia, Howe had moved in, and the Patriot army, now reduced to twelve thousand men, was out in the open countryside as winter descended. Washington had already chosen their quarters, however.
Valley Forge. The place had its merits. With the high grounds named Mount Joy and Mount Misery close by, and the Schuylkill River below, Valley Forge was defensible, and at under twenty miles from Philadelphia, it was a good place from which to keep an eye on British movements.
The Patriot army had started building the camp right away. Stout log cabins, more than a thousand of them in the end, stood in clusters as a sprawling city of huts emerged. At least this activity kept all the men busy, and they soon became rather proud of their efforts. But James often had to take parties of men for miles to find the timber to chop down. The key, Washington insisted, was to ensure that the roof was well sealed.
“For it’s a Philadelphia winter we have to contend with,” he reminded them, “not a northern one.”
It wasn’t long before Yankee troops discovered what he meant. For instead of a covering of northern snow, which seals in everything it falls upon, Valley Forge was suffering through a different kind of winter. Snow there was, from time to time, and freezing sleet, but it would soon melt. Then it would rain, so that the water seeped its way through every crack and crevice, before it froze again. The dry cold of the North might kill a man who had no shelter, but the cold, damp winds and clinging chills of Valley Forge seemed to seep into the marrow of men’s bones.
Log cabins or not, their clothes were in tatters, many still had no boots, and everyone was half starving. The commissary did a magnificent job. There was fish from the river. Occasionally there was meat. Most days, every man was given a pound of decent bread. Most days. But sometimes there would be only firecake, as they grimly called the tasteless husks of flour and water the cooks might have to give them. And sometimes there was nothing. James had even seen men trying to make soup out of grass and leaves. Some weeks, a third of the army was unfit for any duties at all. Their horses looked like skeletons and frequently died. There was nothing left to forage, not a cow within miles. And when James was sent out to the small towns of the region to see if he could buy more provisions, the only money he had to offer were the paper notes offered by Congress, which most traders were suspicious of.
Each day, they buried more men. As time passed, the deaths mounted into hundreds, passed a thousand, reached two thousand. Sometimes James wondered if they’d ever have made it at all without the camp followers—about five hundred of them, mostly wives or female relations of the men. They were given half-rations and half-pay, and they did their best to care for their menfolk. In February, they were joined by Martha Washington. Washington always put on a brave face to his men, but James spent enough time in his company to see that in private he was close to despair. Though he and the other junior officers did all they could to support their chief, he remarked to Mrs. Washington once: “The general’s saved the army, and you’ve saved the general.”
One other person gave Washington comfort. A young man sent from France by the indefatigable Ben Franklin. He’d arrived some months before. Though only twenty years old, he had several years of service in the Musketeers. Arriving in America, he was immediately made a major general.
Marie-Joseph