George Washington Werewolf (3 page)

And later in his tent beneath the ragged blue banner with the thirteen stars, George Washington was filled with remorse that it had come to this, that he had to execute one of his own men.

The sun was out and the snow looked like powder dusting the ground. General Washington’s wife Martha had just arrived by coach from Virginia to celebrate her husband’s forty-sixth birthday. A party was held at the Potts House in the tiny village of Valley Forge and a band made up of soldier musicians played gay tunes. But no one could mistake the General’s solemn countenance. And later, after the gathering dispersed, the commander confided in his wife his deepest fears.

“I cannot see us surviving this winter,” he said, “if we are not re-supplied. We have barely seven thousand men fit for duty. The rest are sick or in the hospital or...”

“What?” his wife asked.

“Despondent,” he said. “We… We can’t outlast…” and he looked away.

“Come here,” Martha said, and she held him close. “You’re doing all you can. More than
anyone
could have done!

“But those… those
men
,” he said, the word almost spit from his lips, “those men in
Congress!
They’re to be our ruination! They sit in their comfortable hotel rooms with their ample meals and full bellies. They… They’re not
here!
” he said, as if that were the sum of the argument. “I have told them what it’s like but
still
they have no idea.”

His face was red, and Martha noticed the veins bulging along his temples, his hands clenched into fists.

“I… I’ve run out of words,” he said.

“My dear, dear man…” Martha said, this the only comfort her husband had received since the winter began.

“But thank God for the
Prussian
,” Washington said, with an expression that almost betrayed a smile.

“The
Prussian?
”

“Von Steuben. He arrives tomorrow. A late birthday gift,” the General smiled. “I’m hoping that… I’m hoping that… well…” he let out a breath.

“I’m hoping that too,” Martha said.

Even Washington had heard the stories. Von Steuben was an eccentric. A prima donna. After all, one of his demands was a private hut on the edge of camp far away from anyone else where no one must
ever
visit. And the hut had to be 15’ by 15’ square made out of black spruce with no windows with its front door facing east. Also he was never to be contacted by
anyone
no matter what. If Washington needed to speak with him, he was to be reached through his aide-de-camp who happened to be a dwarf. And there were other stories: that he had killed three men in duels; that he had tamed a wild bear and kept it as a pet; that he had an affair with Catherine the Great the Empress of Russia; and that he had killed the leader of the Cossack Revolt as a personal favor to her. But Washington didn’t care. He was desperate. The army was falling apart and the word was that Von Steuben, known as The Baron, was the only one who could put it back together. (Although the “von” in his name and his title itself had been the subject of debate in Europe, regarding their authenticity.)

But what was beyond question was that he had been a veteran of numerous military campaigns, that he was a personal friend and advisor of Frederick the Great, and that his knowledge of military matters was unparalleled. And to top it off, Washington received a letter of recommendation from Benjamin Franklin himself praising the Baron as “the most renowned and honored Lieutenant General in the King of Prussia's service". So this was it, the last hope as Washington put the future of the Revolution into the hands of this strange man. But George Washington felt a curious sense of anxiety, the “butterflies in the stomach”, as well as a darker sense of apprehension, as he awaited Von Steuben’s arrival.

Private Malcolm Turner—“Mal” to his friends—had spent two long years in the Continental Army. He was there at the defeats: Kip’s Bay and Long Island. And the victories: Trenton and Princeton. Having grown up in Boston he saw the Revolution’s beginnings. But now, three years later and with no end in sight, he was tired, hungry, and discouraged. And the “demonstration” the other day (the hanging of Private Whitlock) did little to amend his view.

“So what did you think of our little bit of entertainment yesterday?” he asked his friend, Private Solomon Bundy.

“What did he expect?”

“Who, Whitlock?”

“Yeah. I heard he deserted over twenty times.”

“
Twenty?
I heard it was
ten
.”

“What
difference
does it make? They have the right to hang you if it’s only
once!
”

“Well, they may have the right, but that doesn’t
make
it right.”

“Tell that to the hangman.”

“But still, to see him hanging like that, twitching like he did, like some kind of spastic cripple… the way his legs jerked. And then, did you
see
it? The stains in his breeches?”

“Hmm…”

“He peed and shit himself!”

“That’s what they say happens, when…”

“But still, the lack of dignity. It was… disgraceful.”

“That it was…”

“I tell ya, if they ever hang
me
I’m not gonna eat or drink a
thing
the day before!”

“
That’ll
show ‘em!”

“But still, I mean… I heard he had a wife and seven children.”

“We’re not here for
fun
,” said Solomon Bundy. “We’re here to win a
war
.”

“By hanging our own soldiers…”

“Well… I see you got new boots.”

“Yeah.”

“Lucky dog.”

Mal Turner offered a half-hearted smile.

“Speaking of, there was this dog the other day, did you see it?”

“No.”

“It was black with these white spots…”

“No I said.”

“Well, we
ate
it.”

“You ate it?”

“Yeah, we shot it in the head and had it for supper. It wasn’t bad. Better than fire cake. Did you hear about Burr?”

“Burr?”

“You know Captain Dickenson?”

“Dickenson? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“That’s because Burr chopped his arm off!”

“
What?
”

“He disobeyed a direct order, Dickenson that is, and Burr took out his sword and
sliced
it right off! His arm, I mean. And the poor bastard looked down at his own arm lying there in the snow!”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah.”

“Were you there?”

“No, but
Smythe
was. You know Ben Smythe? He’s from Maine. Isn’t that near Boston?”

“Ha!”

“But can you
picture
that?” Bundy went on. “This chopped off arm lying in the bloody snow! That
kills
me! And it’s even better since Dickenson was such an
ass!
”

“So where’s he now?”

“Some hospital I guess.”

“So what happened to Burr?”

“Ha! I guess he’ll get another promotion!”

“Hmm.”

“So I haven’t seen Dil around lately…”

“Dil?”

“Your friend, Dilburton…”

“Hmm…” Mal let out a sigh. “He died of pneumonia last week.”

“Sorry.”

“These are his boots…”

“Well, that’s a good inheritance,” Solomon Bundy said. And after a pause, “So if
you
die can I have
‘em?
The boots I mean…

And they both looked at Bundy’s feet, at his worn-out shoes like strips of rotten leather held together with pieces of twine.

Mal nodded his head.

“Thanks Mal... So what do you think o’ this big wig that’s coming to camp?”

“You mean
‘The Baron’
…”

“Yes,
‘The Baron’
…” Bundy smiled.

“I heard he’s from Poland or Prussia or somewhere, and that he can’t speak a word of English.”

“I heard he can’t speak at all because he had his tongue cut out when he was captured by Cossacks, and that they fried his tongue in animal fat and fed it to their wolfhounds.”

Mal smiled. “
I
heard that he travels with his half-brother who’s a midget.”

“And speaking of…”

“Well I’ll be damned!”

And the two soldiers watched as a well-dressed dwarf led a detachment of troops carrying all sorts of baggage and supplies.

“What the Hell is
that
?” Bundy asked.

“It looks like… the bars of a
cage
?”

“What, did he bring a pet
lion?
”

“I guess…”

“That’s a lot of
stuff!
”

“Generals…”

“Well, you keep at it Mal… maybe by the time this war is over you’ll be a Corporal.”

“Thanks!”

“And speak of the Devil… There’s Burr trying to look all imposing and self-important!”

And they watched as Colonel Aaron Burr observed the processional, a look of barely disguised envy on his face.

“Look! I guess that’s him…” said Bundy. “The Baron himself!”

Not as tall as General Washington, but still there was something utterly commanding in Von Steuben’s bearing. He carried himself like a cross between an aristocrat and a killer, which was a dangerous combination. And as he walked through camp the men stood aside in a kind of awe or reverence, as if he were the King of Prussia himself.

“Those Redcoats have had it
now!
” exclaimed Solomon Bundy.

“We’ll see…”

“Hey, you know what
today
is, right?”

“What, George Washington’s birthday?”

“No, it’s
mail day!
”

“That’s right!” Mal broke into a smile.

“So maybe you’ll get another letter from… what’s her name? Abigail? Alma?”

“It’s Lenore, but you were close.”

“So I’m gonna go and see what I got, all right? I’ll see ya later Mal…”

“See ya Sol.”

“Keep warm!”

“You too.”

And Private Malcolm Turner looked back at The Baron and then at the men carrying the huge iron cage. What could that be for, he wondered.
What could that possibly be for?

The mail had arrived, and Mal Turner had received a letter from Boston from one Lenore Weston, but for some reason he had a sinking feeling as he opened the wax seal. He sat on his makeshift bunk in the log hut he had helped build back in December—when he and Lenore had talked about getting married. But since then he had received only two letters, and not once did she mention their forthcoming marriage. He took a deep breath as he looked at her words written in a steady, determined hand.

27 January 1778

Dear Malcolm,

I am sorry to have not written much lately, but I wanted to make sure of something before I finally told you. I regret with all my heart that I have met someone else. He is a merchant in Boston who owns his own ship, but mainly he is here and is staying here and you have been away for so long. I don’t know when this war will ever end and I don’t want to postpone my life any longer, as I want to have children. Please forgive me, as I do care for you, and I hope that the war is soon over so you may one day be as happy as I am now.

Yours in friendship,

Lenore

“Bad news?” Berkeley, one of the enlisted men asked as he passed by.

Malcolm Turner tried to speak but he had lost his voice. He started to crinkle up the letter in his hands but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he placed it gently on the bed and then turned away, a single tear forming in the corner of his eye.

Isaac Potts built this house out of stone thirty years before, when all was right with the world, when the Colonists were happily British, and this Revolution was not even a glimmer in the most radical mind. But tonight it was the scene of a gala party in honor of Baron Friedrich Von Steuben, who had traveled from Prussia through the Black Forest to France, and then across the Atlantic to Philadelphia to Valley Forge to save General Washington and his ragtag army from defeat.