The Glorious Cause (35 page)

The wind was blowing, and he put the glasses away, pulled his coat tighter around him. Winter indeed. We may predict one thing about General Howe. There will be no campaign now, no great long march, no threat.

He had already scouted the most practical location for his own army to camp for the winter. They would avoid the towns, could not so abuse the citizens who were so completely abused already, some of the outlying communities extremely crowded with those who had escaped the city itself. He had considered moving farther west, the safer hamlets and hill country, but the British would certainly take advantage. With his army far away, Washington knew that Howe could make uncontested forays to the farm country near the city. It was a vastly fertile land, and what the British did not take they might very well destroy. It was essential that throughout the winter Washington keep his troops close enough to Philadelphia to watch over Howe’s movements, to guard the many avenues the British could use to venture into the surrounding countryside. Since there was no suitable town, Washington had scouted the land for the most suitable location to build one, would have the men construct their own camp, making good use of the lumber from the dense woodlands in the area. If the location was secure, guarded by water, or sharp hills, Howe was unlikely to attempt any kind of surprise attack.

He turned the horse, the staff moving with him, felt the sharp chill again. I do not relish another winter, certainly not for these men, who have already endured so much. But the construction will provide activity, keep them engaged in healthy work, and if we are fortunate, a kind Providence will bless us with a gentle season. He moved the horse down along a narrow creek, through a stand of trees, already bare of leaves. The wind whistled above him, and he glanced out to the west, to the darkening sky. He was still unsure if the ground he had chosen was the best place, but it was only eighteen miles from the British lines, was wrapped by a deep bend in the Schuylkill River, a high prominence that would hold away any assault Howe might make.

Despite Howe’s success in opening the Delaware River, and what Washington still believed were his own failures to win his confrontations with Howe’s troops, the mood of the army was surprisingly buoyant. Some would wonder at our very survival, he thought, would marvel that this war has lasted yet another year. It may be our greatest opportunity, our most effective weapon, to prolong the fight. Did any one of us truly believe this would be a brief affair? Perhaps it is unfitting for a nation to be born simply by a wave of a hand, or even the acclamation of its people. If we are worthy of all we profess to fight for, then perhaps the Almighty is requiring us to demonstrate that. If that is my part in this, then I will do the best I can. If congress believes someone else should take command, I will accept that as well. In the end, it is the goal that will matter, not who carries the torch.

The horse found the road, and he waited for the men behind him to file into place. He paused a moment, looked at the faces, the ragged coats, said, “Gentlemen, we will march the men tomorrow. I wish us to occupy that good ground with haste. I do not believe General Howe will interfere, but we can leave nothing to fate. When we reach the camps, we will issue instructions on the order of march. We will prepare a sufficient number of maps. There will be no confusion. If we are blessed by a Divine hand, then we will be afforded a gentle winter, and that ground at Valley Forge will provide us a safe location.”

He turned, spurred the horse, the wind still cutting into him. He blinked through the cold air, fought to see, realized it was starting to snow.

26. FRANKLIN

P
ARIS,
N
OVEMBER 1777

The quiet gardens of Passy had not given him the escape he had sought. If he had any thoughts that removing himself from the bustle of Paris meant a much more relaxed focus on his work, he knew now that his celebrity had come with an annoying price. For weeks on end, no matter his other appointments, no matter the fullness of his calendar, he found himself fending off the constant stream of visitors to his home, so many of whom were seeking his approval, a letter of introduction or recommendation to the congress, some avenue for opportunity in America.

They came with appointments or without, men from all level of society, clerks and bankers, carpenters and dandies, offering services that most had no ability to provide. Franklin had made a game of predicting their particular story, would watch through the window as they emerged from elegant carriages, or climbed down from swaybacked horses. The sport was the only consolation to the assault on his intelligence, as though he was blind to their ambitions and their motivations for leaving France. No matter their performance, he created his own category of applicant. Some were fleeing some personal difficulty, usually an escape from a creditor. Others had personal problems of a different sort, usually involving one or more women, a mix of revenge or jealousy. Then there were the soldiers, and Franklin categorized them as either genuine or counterfeit. In either case, they poured forth their requests, cloaked in a well-rehearsed passion for the American cause. Franklin had come to dread the appearance of a man in uniform. The more finery on the man’s coat, the more outrageous his expectations. More than one man insisted on supplanting Washington himself, as though no American could possibly measure himself in the company of a Frenchman with obscure medals on his chest. Franklin was aware that Silas Deane had succumbed to these presentations, had annoyed congress with letters of introduction for some men who Franklin was convinced would never see any form of battlefield.

But not all the applicants for service had been pretenders, and Franklin had heard of the young man, this Marquis de Lafayette, a man whom King Louis considered so valuable to his own military that Lafayette could make the journey only by violating the king’s orders that he not go. The only way the young man could avoid the king’s decree, and the ship captains who would certainly obey it, was by purchasing a ship and hiring its crew with his own funds. It could have been the fancy of just another wealthy adventurer, but Franklin learned from his friends in the French court that if this particular young man was provided the opportunity, Washington himself might benefit from his service.

Lafayette had been the joyous exception, and Franklin had come to accept that if he was to accomplish any work at all, the reports to congress, even his personal letters, he must first usher the waiting applicants through his sitting room.

He welcomed the presence of Deane, could always depend on the younger man’s energy in hastening the process. For a long hour they had endured the angry spouting from a strange old man, and neither Franklin nor Deane had been able to grasp what the man was demanding, his French twisted by the man’s age and some infirmity of his speech. The man’s presentation was concluded by his exhaustion, and Deane had graciously escorted the man out to his carriage. Franklin waited for him in the parlor, and Deane returned, said, “Rather odd chap, that one. I heard something about horses, ‘Lord High’ horseman . . . or some such.”

Franklin moved toward the sitting room, said, “You understood more than I did. I could only gather something about wanting to command all the horses. Perhaps he was asking to be named major general of livestock. He could oversee the lieutenant of chickens, organize the goat brigade.” He settled into his chair, felt the giddy humor, the complete lack of patience for the process. He sighed, tested the soreness in his joints. “Just a pathetic old man, I suppose, whose good days are past. We should be more tolerant, Silas. But they do not make it easy.”

Deane sat across the room from him, looked into a teacup, sniffed, “Cold. More coffee, Doctor? I’ll retrieve it myself.”

“No, thank you.”

Deane was out of the chair already, disappeared toward the back of the house, and Franklin thought, He has learned a great deal. Not so impressed anymore by every man in a uniform. Not sure if that lesson has been learned by the congress, which must certainly give dismay to General Washington.

Deane returned, a steaming cup in his hand, and he stopped in the doorway, looked out through the front window.

“A carriage. I thought we had completed our punishment for today.”

Franklin heard the beat of the horses, listened more to the pain in his bones and stayed in the chair.

“What have we this time?”

“Simple craft. No one of wealth, that’s certain. Oh dear. He has a uniform.”

Deane went to the door, and Franklin heard the voice, very foreign, and Deane seemed excited now, some recognition. Franklin waited, and Deane led the man into the sitting room, said, “Doctor Benjamin Franklin, I am pleased to introduce to you Baron Frederick William Augustus von Steuben. In my last meeting with Monsieur de Beaumarchais, the baron’s name was mentioned prominently. I did not expect him to make the visit here. Monsieur Beaumarchais has suggested the baron may be of service to our cause.”

Franklin stood slowly, studied the man who stood at stiff attention. Von Steuben was a tall, handsome man, a high forehead, and Franklin thought, He somewhat resembles General Washington. Same age, or close.

“Baron, it is my pleasure to welcome you to Passy.”

Von Steuben seemed unsure, smiled slightly, a short, crisp bow, reached into his pocket, pulled out a letter. Deane handed it to Franklin, who studied the wax seal, the gold embossing of the French War Ministry. He opened the letter, read for a moment, said, “It seems you have made a considerable impression on Count Saint-Germain. You may be the first man to visit here who has actually impressed someone worthy.” He read again, then looked at von Steuben, studied the man’s unfamiliar uniform. “Yes, of course, Prussian. You served with Frederick the Great. Tell me, Baron, what may we offer you?”

Von Steuben looked at Deane, the uncertainty returning and Deane said, “He speaks no English, Doctor.” Deane began to speak in French, and von Steuben’s face seemed to lighten, the words finding their way. The Prussian made another bow toward Franklin, said in a ragged display of French, “I seek service, sir. I bring the respectful salute of King Frederick, for your cause. I have considerable training in the art and practice of war. I ask only for an opportunity.”

Deane looked at Franklin, said, in French, “Doctor, Monsieur Beaumarchais has told me that the baron brings a considerable amount of skill. He is currently, um, my apologies, Baron. He is currently without position. He holds the rank of captain in the Prussian army.”

Franklin sorted through Deane’s words, saw a short nod from von Steuben. He thought a moment, said, “Baron, the French War Ministry feels you are qualified for service to any army in the world. I have no reason to doubt that. However, I see one problem.” He sorted through his words. “The congress is deluged with men of high rank, vast claims of experience, most of them absurd. I fear that your rank of captain will not attract much attention.” Franklin moved to his writing desk, sat, retrieved his pen from the inkstand. He looked at Deane, said in English, “Mr. Deane, I have a solution. If you agree that the baron is indeed one of the few capable men who has come through this parlor, then we should provide him with a letter of introduction that will cause him to be noticed. I propose we . . . elevate him somewhat.” He began to write, glanced up at von Steuben, who was watching him with puzzled curiosity. Franklin returned to the paper, the pen scratching out the words. He finished, held up the paper, said, “There. Mr. Deane, I would ask you to translate this for the baron, so that he may know what he is carrying.”

Deane read the paper, smiled now, said, “Only you would have the courage, Doctor.”

Deane began slowly, read the words aloud to von Steuben in French, and Franklin saw the man’s eyes grow wide, the Prussian now looking at Franklin with some apprehension.

Deane saw the look, interrupted his reading, said, “I’m not certain the baron is comfortable with this, Doctor.”

“Nonsense. Never knew a military man to turn down a promotion.”

Deane began again.

“The gentleman who accompanies this letter is the Baron von Steuben, who honors us from his position in the service of the king of Prussia, whom he attended in all his campaigns, being his aide-de-camp, quartermaster general, and lately achieved the rank of lieutenant general . . .”

D
ECEMBER 1777

He had taken Temple to the opera, a lavish production of a new work by Franz Joseph Haydn,
Il Mondo della Luna
. The young man had protested at first, but Franklin would hear none of it, had been dedicated to injecting his eldest grandson with a significant dose of culture. He knew Temple would have been much happier spending the evening with the young ladies of Passy, and throughout the carriage ride into Paris, the young man had sulked and growled his displeasure. But once inside the grand opera house, Temple’s mood had brightened considerably. The vast audience that flowed through the portals of the hall were the cream of Parisian society, and as both the young man and his grandfather noted, there were more beautiful women in attendance at this one event than could be found in the entire village of Passy. Though he could not be certain that Temple had acquired any appreciation for the works of Haydn, the society women who took notice of this eminent Doctor Franklin, took special notice of his grandson, and the young man found himself fluttered over by a giggling flock of colorfully adorned young maidens. Temple would never protest an evening at the opera again.

They would remain in Paris for the night, Franklin having been granted an appointment with Vergennes the next day. He had made arrangements to stay at a comfortable hotel in the city, had been discreet about his planning, expected that if the news of his evening in Paris was announced, someone would certainly insist on making a fuss, some sort of reception. Temple would no doubt enjoy the attention, but Franklin’s patience for social banter was fragile. Despite his love of the opera, after such a long evening, he was more interested in a good night’s sleep.

They arrived at the hotel to find the wide entryway choked with traffic, carriages and their drivers maneuvering clumsily. His own carriage halted in the street, and Franklin peered out the side, his driver pointing. “Monsieur. My apologies. There is so much . . . busy.”

“No matter, my good man. We will make the walk from here. If you would kindly retrieve our bags . . .”

The driver was quickly down, opened the door, and Franklin eased himself out, stepped down on the uneven cobblestones. He looked back at Temple, said, “You see? Someone in the hotel must have revealed our stay to every guest in the place. Now they have spread the word to every corner of the city. There is truly no escaping the crowd.”

Temple was beside him, the young man holding discreetly to Franklin’s arm, supporting him, steadying him as they stepped over the treacherous roadway. “I should have a word with the manager. Clearly he has no respect for my privacy.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

The young man’s tone was sarcastic, and Franklin could tell that Temple was skeptical. Why else would such a crowd assemble? It seems he must see for himself. He is more like me than even he knows. Ah, well, if we must endure an adoring audience, at least I can use this to instruct him, some guidance on the proper way of showing humble appreciation to one’s admirers.

They wound their way through the carriages, reached the entryway, the door held open by two men adorned in the costumes of Roman guards. Franklin smiled as he passed them, thought, Ah, the French. They do so seek the absurd in their fashion.

The lobby was more quiet than he expected, and he led Temple to the reception desk, a young man writing furiously on a pad of paper.

“Excuse me, sir. We have arrived. Will you kindly direct my grandson and myself to our proper station?”

The clerk ignored him for a moment, continued to scribble, looked up now, showed a mild shock. “Oh! Dr. Franklin! Yes, your room is prepared, sir!”

Their baggage had been set beside him, and the clerk seemed to study the emptiness of the lobby, an annoyed frown.

“There is no one to assist. I am sorry, sir. The servants are all engaged with the reception in our grand hall. I shall have to assist you myself. If you will wait just one moment.”

The clerk went back to his pad, was scowling, annoyed at having to suffer such an inconvenience, and Franklin said, “Shouldn’t we attend the reception first? There is ample time for us to retire afterward.”

The clerk seemed perplexed, said, “Are you attending, sir? I was not aware.”

Franklin was perplexed himself, and Temple leaned forward, said in a low voice to the clerk, “May we know who the reception is for, sir?”

The clerk smiled now, a show of pride.

“We are honored tonight to receive a most famous Englishman, sir, Mr. Edward Gibbon.” The clerk lowered his voice, said to Franklin, “You know, sir, I am told he writes books!”

Franklin looked at Temple, saw feigned disinterest. Well, no, he is not so much like me after all. He had the wisdom
not
to assume that I am the center of every universe. The clerk was out from behind his desk, hoisted their two small bags, said, “If you will follow me, sir. Your room is this way.”