The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [197]
He saw guards emerging from the house, the young Captain Gibbs now stepping down, the men moving away from the house, toward the creek. Gibbs saw him, seemed surprised, said, “General von Steuben, may I help you, sir?”
He could hear the distinct Virginia accent in the man’s voice, so different from the New England men.
“No, thank you, Captain. I’ll be to dinner now.”
“General Washington is in the dining cabin, sir. If there’s anything at all we can do, please inquire.”
The young man moved away, the guards falling into line behind him, a slow march toward their quarters. They hopped across the creek in turn, the mud splattering beneath them, and von Steuben watched them for a long moment, then made a wide step across the creek himself, moved to the door of the house.
THE DINNER WAS COMPLETE, BROUGHT TO A CLOSE BY A SONG, AN UNFAMILIAR melody, words von Steuben didn’t know. It had been Mrs. Washington’s idea, a frequent conclusion to the meals now, something prayerful, solemn. He had tried to follow the words, could understand that it was a call for mercy, for sparing the lives of the young. He had stayed quiet, absorbing their mood, had focused on Washington, could see the man staring downward, his eyes closing, the words filled with obvious meaning. But when the song was finished, the mood passed, the officers and their wives rose from the table, solemnity giving way to smiles and cordiality. It was another of those odd American habits, finding a moment to reflect solely on the sadness, the horror of the world beyond these pleasant walls. As he stepped out into the chilly night, he thought, It is another difference, something that separates them from Europe. So often the foreign officers are men of high breeding and titled family, so far removed from the rabble of their army. They command vast armies of men they rarely see, and certainly never speak to, soldiers whose lives are reduced to sketches on paper, to lines of a map. The generals learn it from their monarchs, those who are barricaded in their own grand palaces, removed farther still from the people whose lives they hold in their hands. It is no wonder these men love their commander. It is an emotion that flows in both directions.
The party was dispersing, Washington’s staff assisting the ladies to their waiting carriages. Washington was not there, and von Steuben thought, He is already into the main house. Duponceau had pointed it out to him his first few days in the camp, Washington’s private entryway, the escape route from the social scene that might otherwise capture him in the dining area. It was a narrow door, cut into the side of the main house, that led directly to Washington’s office. Von Steuben looked at the guard, ever-present, one of Gibbs’ Virginians, a gruff-looking man who stood squarely in front of the door. Von Steuben smiled, thought, Not everything about this army is so casual.
He moved around the outside of the house, climbed the steps, moved inside, found himself alone in the hall. To one side he could hear the clatter of pewter dishes in the kitchen, small talk from the maids. He lingered in the hall for a moment, saw the glow of light from the far end of the hall, Washington’s office, and now a voice behind him, “General, are you lost?”
He turned, was towering over the petite round woman, said, “Mrs. Washington . . . no, not lost. Waiting. A moment only.”
“Are you waiting to see my husband? I am certain he is alone. Most everyone has retired. I was preparing to do the same.”
“Oh, thank you, yes. I will see him. Only a moment.”
She was smiling at him, the contagious softness that brought out a smile of his own.
“Are you not married, General? Your wife would certainly be welcome in this camp.”
“Oh, no, there is no wife. Difficult for me . . . my duties.”
“Forgive me, General. I do not mean to be impolite. I must say, your English