make of this mad Prussian, they knew that they liked him. Whatever they thought of what he was teaching them, they were at least learning
something
. It was almost like a game. But in the process they learned to shoulder arms, march in formation, and use a bayonet for more than roasting rabbits over an open fire.
Whether they knew it or not, they were learning how to be more than rebels. They were learning how to be soldiers.
General Lee continued glaring at Steuben. He spat at the ground in contempt. Horatio Gates glanced downward to see if Lee had somehow hit his boots. He was relieved to see his comrade had missed.
“So, General Gates, what think you of our Prussian drillmaster with his great ‘Star of Fidelity of Baden’ upon his chest?”
Lee had pronounced each word of “Star of Fidelity of Baden” slowly and with the utmost contempt.
“I think,” answered General Gates, in a low voice so none but Charles Lee might hear him, that ‘Baden’ bears far too close a similarity to ‘bedlam.’”
Wednesday, May 6, 1778
Valley Forge
A lone six-pound cannon roared fire and smoke and shattered the Valley’s mid-morning silence. It thundered not in violence, nor in attack nor in defense.
It thundered instead in sheer joy.
The previous evening General Washington had received correspondence from Benjamin Franklin in Paris containing the news that all Americans had long awaited: France had entered the war against Britain. The colonists no longer faced the world’s mightiest empire outgunned and alone. Franklin—along with a victory at Saratoga—had finally convinced France’s King Louis XVI to declare war upon George III. It would now be a fair fight and perhaps only a matter of time until London grew tired of war, of expending its blood and treasure in a fruitless struggle against men who no longer wished to be called English subjects but rather free Americans.
Washington summoned his officers. By flickering tallow candlelight he read to them the wondrous news. Tears streamed down Marquis de Lafayette’s cheeks. He rushed toward Washington and embraced him.
Washington knew a celebration was in order, but it was Steuben who knew what to do—and how to do it.
Somehow, this ruddy-faced Prussian had done more than simply train these rough and ready and—not long ago starving—Americans how to shoulder arms and respectably march around Valley Forge’s vast parade ground. He had achieved a miracle. In a matter of weeks, he had transformed a horde of patriots into a cadre of professional soldiers—capable, confident, and, hopefully, deadly effective.
Now Steuben would stage a grand show for Washington, for the menthemselves—and for an entire world still wondering whether a revolution of free men might succeed.
Two great lines of Continental troops faced each other on Valley Forge’s parade grounds: the first line was half under the command of Major General Lord Stirling’s command and half under Lafayette’s. The second line was entirely under the command of yet another foreign-born volunteer: the German-born French general Baron Johann DeKalb.
Three thirteen-gun salutes punctuated the morning air, but the most heartening portion of the program was the great show the enlisted men staged—a
feu de joie
, a “fire of joy”—a spectacular running of musket fire from the seven brigades that marked the two lines of men. As each musketeer fired a blank shot into the air, the soldier next to him instantly discharged his own weapon. On and on, the men fired in precision, without a hitch, up one line and down the next. The thunder they sent skyward was long and loud, continuous and resounding. General Horatio Gates covered his ears from the noise. General Charles Lee’s faithful dogs cowered under their master.
Baron von Steuben had indeed transformed an ill-trained, half-starved rabble into professionals. And Valley Forge had toughened the men it had not killed or frightened away. Those who remained
something
. It was almost like a game. But in the process they learned to shoulder arms, march in formation, and use a bayonet for more than roasting rabbits over an open fire.
Whether they knew it or not, they were learning how to be more than rebels. They were learning how to be soldiers.
General Lee continued glaring at Steuben. He spat at the ground in contempt. Horatio Gates glanced downward to see if Lee had somehow hit his boots. He was relieved to see his comrade had missed.
“So, General Gates, what think you of our Prussian drillmaster with his great ‘Star of Fidelity of Baden’ upon his chest?”
Lee had pronounced each word of “Star of Fidelity of Baden” slowly and with the utmost contempt.
“I think,” answered General Gates, in a low voice so none but Charles Lee might hear him, that ‘Baden’ bears far too close a similarity to ‘bedlam.’”
Wednesday, May 6, 1778
Valley Forge
A lone six-pound cannon roared fire and smoke and shattered the Valley’s mid-morning silence. It thundered not in violence, nor in attack nor in defense.
It thundered instead in sheer joy.
The previous evening General Washington had received correspondence from Benjamin Franklin in Paris containing the news that all Americans had long awaited: France had entered the war against Britain. The colonists no longer faced the world’s mightiest empire outgunned and alone. Franklin—along with a victory at Saratoga—had finally convinced France’s King Louis XVI to declare war upon George III. It would now be a fair fight and perhaps only a matter of time until London grew tired of war, of expending its blood and treasure in a fruitless struggle against men who no longer wished to be called English subjects but rather free Americans.
Washington summoned his officers. By flickering tallow candlelight he read to them the wondrous news. Tears streamed down Marquis de Lafayette’s cheeks. He rushed toward Washington and embraced him.
Washington knew a celebration was in order, but it was Steuben who knew what to do—and how to do it.
Somehow, this ruddy-faced Prussian had done more than simply train these rough and ready and—not long ago starving—Americans how to shoulder arms and respectably march around Valley Forge’s vast parade ground. He had achieved a miracle. In a matter of weeks, he had transformed a horde of patriots into a cadre of professional soldiers—capable, confident, and, hopefully, deadly effective.
Now Steuben would stage a grand show for Washington, for the menthemselves—and for an entire world still wondering whether a revolution of free men might succeed.
Two great lines of Continental troops faced each other on Valley Forge’s parade grounds: the first line was half under the command of Major General Lord Stirling’s command and half under Lafayette’s. The second line was entirely under the command of yet another foreign-born volunteer: the German-born French general Baron Johann DeKalb.
Three thirteen-gun salutes punctuated the morning air, but the most heartening portion of the program was the great show the enlisted men staged—a
feu de joie
, a “fire of joy”—a spectacular running of musket fire from the seven brigades that marked the two lines of men. As each musketeer fired a blank shot into the air, the soldier next to him instantly discharged his own weapon. On and on, the men fired in precision, without a hitch, up one line and down the next. The thunder they sent skyward was long and loud, continuous and resounding. General Horatio Gates covered his ears from the noise. General Charles Lee’s faithful dogs cowered under their master.
Baron von Steuben had indeed transformed an ill-trained, half-starved rabble into professionals. And Valley Forge had toughened the men it had not killed or frightened away. Those who remained
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