The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [174]
The numbers of sick were still growing, nearly a third of his army was suffering some serious illness, and another third were huddled in their cabins with the ailments that stripped them of any ability to fight. The men who were excused from duty found that the shelters could cause problems of their own. Sealed up in their cabins, their eyes and lungs would suffer from the stifling dry heat of the wood fires, eyes and lungs burnt with smoke. But to escape the cabins meant exposure, hands and fingers split, feet swollen into lameness. As he heard and endured the suffering of his men, Washington was grateful that Howe was so fond of quiet winters, would make no attempt to interrupt the comfort of the British troops. Eleven thousand men had moved into Valley Forge, but Washington knew that on any given day, fewer than three thousand could have put up any kind of fight.
While so many of his men had worked on the cabins, others had been busy with the shovel, digging entrenchments and redoubts, earthworks along the roads that gave access to the camp. There were inner lines as well as outer, the crucial necessity of having some good defensive line to fall back to. More often, he would ride out along the outer lines, heavy earthworks facing south and east, the roads that led to Philadelphia. Out past the works, the ground fell away, a long hill easily protected by artillery. As he rode along the far left flank, he could see the Schuylkill, and the new bridge just built by his men. It was constructed for the purpose of foraging, the most convenient means of sending wagons out to the north and west. But Washington knew that it was something else as well. Despite the strength of the ground, the stout defenses, if Howe did launch an attack, he might very well overwhelm any meager force Washington could summon. The bridge would be the army’s one avenue of escape.
The outposts and picket posts were few and scattered along the river itself, and served little purpose than to watch the far side, some sign of a British patrol perhaps. The plateau fell away to the river’s edge in a steep drop along much of the northern flank, and he stayed up on the flat roadway, would not risk the horse’s legs on a sharp slope of icy ground. The staff would be grateful; they were not the skilled rider that he was. He glanced behind him, saw Tilghman huddled in the saddle, his arms pulling tightly to his coat. Around his shoulders was draped a blanket, the man’s face barely visible. Washington stopped the horse, waited for the aides to come up, said, “We’re nearly done, gentlemen. I do not enjoy this duty any more than you, but as long as the men are suffering in our protection, we will pay our respects by observing them with the same decorum we would exhibit at headquarters.”
Tilghman emerged from his covering, removed the blanket, had received his subtle message. Washington spurred the horse, moved out again, could see the final picket post in front of them, saw the men coming together, muskets upright. Beyond the post, the ground fell away to the west, and he could see a lone column of smoke, rising from the chimney of his headquarters. He rode close to the pickets, stopped, could see one of the men bareheaded, thought, Not wise, then he saw the man’s feet, dark and red, and beneath them, the man’s hat, crushed flat, the only protection the man had against the icy ground. The site horrified him, and he said, “Have you no cover for your feet, soldier?”
The man began to speak, but the words were held back by a sudden wave of shivering. Beside him, a man said, “Have you, sir?”
There was no emotion in the man’s voice, no expectation of a reply. Washington avoided the sight of the man’s bare feet, scanned their muskets, saw no gloves, cracked and cut hands wrapped tightly around the dull wooden stocks of their weapons. He wanted to respond, we are trying, we are making every effort . . . but the words would not come, held away by the tightness in his throat.