Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory: A Novel - Hardcover

Chapter One

Near Middle Ford of the Schuylkill River, Five Miles Southwest of Philadelphia
December 22, 1777

     A cold and blustery wind blew out of the northeast, carrying with it the promise of yet more snow. Undaunted by the wintry blast, Zebulon Miller faced the rising storm from the doorway of his spacious barn. The pitiful mooing inside was an abrupt reminder of the abandoned predawn milking. As the ominous darkness gave way to a pale dawn light, a startling revelation was now confronting him: The war was once again coming to his farm, his land, and this time it had caught him by surprise.
     His wife, Elsa, ran from the house and clung nervously to his side. A sudden gust of wind caught her cap, revealing auburn tresses that whipped wildly about her face.
     “We can still try to hide them,” she pleaded breathlessly.
     He shook his head. “Too late,” was all he could say bitterly. His voice trembled with the seething rage that was beginning to erupt within him.
     Over the past four months, Zebulon had unfortunately come to know the paraphernalia and uniforms of this war: the threadbare rags of the so-called Continental Line, the ridiculous foppery of the militias that would turn out boldly enough but then turn and run at the mere rumor of an approaching enemy. What he saw now was a striking contrast, for the men advancing in open lines across his neighbor’s fields were professional soldiers of the king.
     They were British light infantry, their hat feathers dyed red in mocking defiance of pledges made by the Pennsylvania Line to show them no quarter in battle after the bitter memories of what was now called the Paoli Massacre. The red feathers were a taunt, a statement that boasted, “Here we are, we defeated you at Paoli, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop us.”
     Deployed into open skirmish lines, the light infantry advanced toward Miller’s farm. A mounted troop of dragoons in the center of the formation held the road leading up from Middle Ferry Road and the village of Darby. The synchronized movements of the formations resembled the choreography of a dance; they were leapfrogging forward at the run, flanking a hundred yards to either side of the road. Half were moving, half remained still, with weapons raised to provide covering fire for those who in turn would then leap forward another couple of hundred yards. Taking advantage of every bit of cover, they crouched behind trees and ducked into ditches. After hurdling the split rail fence that divided Zebulon’s fields from his neighbor, Snyder, half the men dropped down on one knee with their muskets at the ready, the other half sprinted toward his home.
     There might have been a time when British infantry would foolishly march up a road, and straight into an ambush, as some militia boasted, but he doubted it. Perhaps at Concord and Lexington, in 1775, when the British thought they were just sweeping up rabble, there might have been a certain complacency. But now, after nearly two years of grueling war, they were well trained and exceptionally efficient. The events of the last four months, from Brandywine to Germantown, were proof that no militia could ever stand against them. Zebulon Miller knew he was watching the best- trained infantry in the world. He stepped out from the entry of his barn. Resolved to make the best of it, he tried to force a welcoming smile. He could at least claim to look like a Loyalist, now that his troublesome son had run off to join the rebels.
     A light infantryman ran swiftly toward Zebulon and Elsa. The soldier fought to catch his breath as he raised his musket to his shoulder and steadied his aim at the farmer. His eyes darted to size up Zebulon, then looked past him to the barn, and focused again on the farmer and his wife.
     “Show your hands there!”
     Zebulon did as ordered. In the last four months, he had faced a loaded musket more than once. He recalled a frightening incident when he caught some foolish militiamen trying to loot his chicken coop. His blunderbuss won the standoff, and the men ran like hell at the sight of the gaping muzzle of his weapon.
     With his hands held high, he took a daring step forward.
     “I am loyal to the king,” he announced.
     The soldier didn’t move or reply, glaring at him coldly, his musket still poised. Several comrades forced their way into the farmer’s home; the sounds of breaking glass were mixed with jeers and raucous laughter as they took great delight in ransacking the home for plunder.
     “No need for that!” Elsa cried, stepping out from behind Zebulon to defend the sanctuary of their home.
     “Damn you, woman, don’t move!” the soldier snapped.
     Zebulon lowered a hand to pull her in by his side.
     Zebulon studied the countenance of the soldier before him. The pale light of dawn that broke through the turbulent skies revealed a young, ruddy, weatherbeaten face; the lack of expression in his eyes disclosed a stoic detachment.
     “I have some cider in the barn. My good wife would be glad to heat it for you and your comrades. Would you care for some?” he offered.
     The barrel of cider left out in the open would be lost anyhow; he hoped they would not find the other barrels concealed in a pit dug under the floorboards of the barn.
     The soldier didn’t waver. A comrade came out of the house, held up his musket on the porch, and waved back to the support line covering their advance. The second line got up from their ready position and dashed forward in turn. As the other two in the house came out, one stuffed a slab of bacon, which would have been Zebulon’s breakfast over the next few days, into his haversack. Elsa began to object, but Zebulon squeezed her shoulder to warn her not to move.
     Seconds later, the support line burst forward, barely glancing at the couple as they raced through the farmyard, past the barn, and out into the orchard to the west.
     Two infantrymen dashed into the barn and came out seconds later with jubilant expressions.
     “Plenty in there,” one exclaimed, and they raced to join the rest of their detachment, already moving through the orchard.
     Zebulon’s heart sank with those words.

He owned twenty acres of woodlot to the north. In the center there was a deep hollow cut formed by a creek that meandered down to the Schuylkill. With considerable effort, he had dug into the bank and covered its approach with deadfall. With each appearance of armed men, he had been able to conceal his prize team of draft horses, his breeding bull, two of the milk cows, and the last of his sows, old Beatrice. Elsa had declared that Beatrice would never be slaughtered; the old grotesque thing had become like a pet to her.
     Up until this moment, he had managed to keep enough hidden to see them through the winter and into the planting and breeding time of spring.
     But this time, war came without warning.
     He turned anxiously to look back into his barn. Before this damn war started he was planning to add on to the barn, built by his grandfather, who had cleared the land fifty years ago. Two...