The Drillmaster of Valley Forge (6 page)

The allegations concerning Steuben's behavior were never proven, but they were no less damning than if they had been. Most of his friends at Hechingen, with the notable exception of Chancellor Frank, distanced themselves from him. The charges effectively killed Steuben's chances for employment in Baden. As a friend at Karlsruhe noted, the rumors would have to be disproven or “declared calumnious” before the margrave could even think of taking Steuben into his service. The burden of proof would therefore be on the Baron himself.
²⁰

Coming on the heels of the failed interview at Passy, this new development was devastating. Steuben was trapped: he dared not show his face at Hechingen, and a continued stay at Karlsruhe would have been unimaginably awkward. Broke, aging, and an accused pederast to boot, he had few options. He was unemployed and unemployable. The matter would never surface again—Steuben himself never mentioned it in his correspondence, and made only a vague reference to it later in life—but it clearly was the greatest crisis of his life.

Just at that very moment he was offered a way out of his predicament. While he was at Karlsruhe, considering his next move, letters arrived for him from France. Beaumarchais and St. Germain had written to him in great urgency: he
must
return to Paris, and at once. Without pausing to reflect on the meaning of this ambiguous summons, Steuben fled to Paris. He had little choice. The path to his salvation would have to lead through Passy to America.

 

H
E ARRIVED IN
P
ARIS
sometime in mid-August 1777, where he visited Franklin and Deane once again at the Valentinois. Franklin, he found, had not changed his tune, but Beaumarchais and St. Germain had put their heads together and come up with a new plan. Steuben would still proceed to America as a volunteer, nothing more, with no commission in hand and no promise that he would get one upon arrival. He would proceed to Pennsylvania and meet with the Continental Congress, bearing written endorsements from the American commissioners. But Beaumarchais would underwrite the costs of his travel with a personal loan. Steuben would set sail from France as a guest of Roderigue Hortalez et Compagnie.

There may have been an additional incentive to entice Steuben. A British agent in Paris reported that the “Baron Steinben” had worked out a secret, lucrative deal with St. Germain: once he had served three years in America, he would return to France and receive a commission in the king's army. There was never any written confirmation of such an arrangement, but if true, then it helps to explain much about Steuben's subsequent conduct: why, for example, he was so eager to reconsider the American offer, and why, when he later grew disenchanted with the Continental Army, he was so confident that the French would take him back in a heartbeat.
²¹

Beaumarchais and St. Germain were not simply going out of their way to help their mutual friend. Assisting Steuben was also in their best interests, and France's, too. If the Prussian proved to be half as useful as they thought he might be, he would fill an obvious gap in
American military leadership: the lack of officers experienced in the areas of army organization, logistics, training, and planning—all Steuben's strong suits. No one expected him to be a military savior, the man who would enable the Americans to win, but then, that wasn't their intention. St. Germain and Vergennes did not want the rebels to achieve independence on their own. They wanted America to need France, to be indebted to France for their very existence. The Americans would just have to be capable of holding on until France was ready to jump with both feet into the fray. If Steuben could be placed in a position of authority, perhaps he could help the Continental Army do just that. He would help Vergennes and his allies achieve their aims—while France got the credit. Steuben would be their gift to the Revolution.

The problem was that Steuben was essentially a nobody. Other foreigners already in the American army could boast of much loftier ranks and greater honors. Steuben, on the other hand, had been nothing more than a humble captain. Although his abilities were the kind that would quickly have become apparent to another military man after a few moments of conversation, they did not come across on paper. If Freiherr von Steuben were to find favor with Congress, his qualities would have to be made obvious to civilians unfamiliar with the language of war.

If Steuben was ever a fraud, he became one at Passy. Up until this moment, he had not publicly misrepresented himself or his credentials. But in August 1777, he would lay claim to distinctions and experiences that were not actually his.

The act of deception was not actually Steuben's but, rather, a team effort in which all of his promoters—Vergennes, St. Germain, Beaumarchais, Deane, and Franklin—took part. Deane and Beaumarchais were the principal conspirators. In the first days of September 1777, they composed their promotional materials for the
Freiherr
: a series of letters to be carried by Steuben and delivered in person to General Washington and to leading personages in Congress. The recipients were carefully chosen. Silas Deane wrote to
Robert Morris, the Philadelphia financier whose vast personal wealth and fiscal acumen gave him tremendous influence in Congress; Deane and Franklin wrote to Washington jointly; Louis de L'Estarjette, Deane's secretary, wrote to Henry Laurens of South Carolina, president of the Continental Congress.
²²

All three letters made roughly the same claims on Steuben's behalf. He was, they wrote, a “Lieutenant General in the Prussian army” and had “seen more than Twenty Years Service under the King of Prussia,” “whom he attended in all his Campaigns.” For a portion of that time he had served the king in person as “Quarter Master General” and another portion as “Aid de Camp” to the king. Steuben bore written testimonials from Prince Henry and “other great Personages”; he was also “warmly recommended by the Ministry here who are acquainted with his Person, & Character.” His “distinguished character and known abilities” were attested to by “two of the best Judges of military Merit in this Country,” namely Vergennes and St. Germain, “who have long been personally acquainted with him.”

As if these accolades were not enough, their authors waxed poetic over Steuben's motives. He was travelling to America “with a true Zeal for our Cause & a View of engaging in & rendering it all the Service in his Power.” He “goes over to America upon no other motive than to render himself useful in our good Cause, and [to] humble our Enemies.” Steuben's ardor was reportedly so great that he had turned down “a very important and lucrative Post in one of the German Courts” in order to serve Congress. Congress could not possibly turn away such a talented soldier, whose “20 Years Study & Practice in the Prussian School may be of great Use to our Armies.” Congress would be remiss in its duties if it did not accept such a great gift, freely given.

Nearly every statement was falsified or exaggerated, every detail—about Steuben's rank and experience—deliberately misrepresented.

If there were any doubts that the American commissioners were behind the charade, Silas Deane readily implicated himself. When he wrote to Robert Morris, he went out of his way to explain why it was that Steuben had nothing on paper to verify his military rank and
experience. The Baron, he admitted freely, had come to Paris nearly three months earlier, but had left when he could not be guaranteed a place in the Continental Army. He returned to Paris only “after some of Our Freinds here…generously defrayed the Expences of his Voyage.” Steuben had been in such a hurry to get to Paris this second time, however, that he carelessly left his personal papers behind in Karlsruhe. Deane was not overly concerned, he related to Morris, for he had already seen written proof that Steuben was who he purported to be, so when Steuben suggested that he arrange for his papers to be delivered to Paris, Deane stopped him. “I advised him not to delay his setting out…. I thought it would be only The Loss of Time.” Steuben, in other words, had not hoodwinked Deane. Instead, the American knowingly covered for Steuben, hoping that Washington and Congress would simply forget about the specifics of his past.

The arrangements were made. The Baron de Steuben, late lieutenant-general, quartermaster-general, and aide-de-camp to Frederick of Prussia, would set out on the first available ship that Beaumarchais had at his disposal, and then make his triumphal entry into the United States.

D
EANE
, Beaumarchais, and the others had taken the first steps in selling the Baron de Steuben, packaging him neatly in flashy titles that would temporarily substitute for manifest ability. Since it would be next to impossible to convey, in a few pithy phrases that anyone could understand, what it was that made Steuben worthy of attention, superficial qualities would have to do for now. Deane and the rest could get the Baron to Congress's doorstep; once there, Steuben would be on his own.

In America he would be completely out of his element, so he would have to prepare carefully while in France. First he would need to assemble a retinue. No self-respecting general could travel without a personal staff, whether he was on active duty or not. Like any gentleman of high birth, he had to have at least a servant or two to help him dress, to cook and clean for him, to perform
all of the routine daily tasks that no nobleman should have to do for himself. But he would also need a few literate junior officers to assist him with military and administrative responsibilities: a secretary to handle his correspondence perhaps, and a couple of aides-de-camp, protégés who could run errands for him and with whom he could consult.

Steuben's staff would serve an obvious practical purpose—since the Baron did not know English, and few Americans spoke either French or German, he could not get by without a couple of assistants who could translate for him. But a staff would also give Steuben an air of importance that he would lack if he travelled alone. Just as wearing the proper attire could convey the appropriate impression of professionalism, being surrounded by a busy staff of professional soldiers would show that he took his craft seriously, and that he was bred to command. And it expressed something that the Baron considered just as important: an appearance of nonchalance. For if he could afford to maintain a staff even while he was unemployed, he was clearly a man of considerable means. It meant that he did not
need
anything from the Americans, and the Baron did not want to look needy. Doing so would compromise his newly fashioned persona.

Beaumarchais, who had a personal stake in Steuben's future, was glad to help select a few men who served his own purposes as well as the Baron's. First there was Jean-Baptiste Lazare Theveneau de Francy, who was not to be officially attached to Steuben but would travel with him anyway. Francy was assigned to act as an agent for Roderigue Hortalez et Cie., representing Beaumarchais's business interests in America. “A handsome man, and what was called a beau in those days,” Francy spoke English passably well but could not write it.
²
Beaumarchais's nephew, twenty-year-old Augustin François Des Epiniers, came with Francy. Beaumarchais thought his nephew spoiled and inept, but perhaps a tour in the Continental Army might make a man of him. Silas Deane had already given Francy a commission as captain of engineers nearly nine months before. A lieutenant in the French army, Louis de Ponthière, was hired as the Baron's personal aide-de-camp.

The fourth member of the little entourage would become the most
vital member of the Baron's military family. Pierre-Étienne Duponceau was a fixture in Beaumarchais's Left Bank household and the playwright's unofficial student. A dreamy-eyed, nearsighted, and hopelessly scholarly boy of seventeen, Duponceau was possessed of an insatiable academic curiosity. For all that, he was tougher than he appeared at first glance, with his pale complexion and tall, lanky frame, exaggerated by adolescent awkwardness. He had a gift for languages—during the long sea voyage to America, he sketched out his ideas for a “universal language and alphabet,” presaging Esperanto by more than a century—and in this regard he was particularly useful to Steuben, for he was fluent in English. After the Revolution, he would settle down to a legal career in Philadelphia, become a leading light in Franklin's American Philosophical Society, and earn a name for himself as a pioneering linguist and student of Native American tongues.
³

Much less is known about the two remaining members of the Baron's group. Steuben had a young German manservant, one Carl Vogel, who was so unremarkable that even Duponceau's detailed diary scarcely mentions the man. And then there was Azor, the Baron's dog, who stayed at his master's side from Paris until after the end of the War for Independence. By all accounts, Azor was a large dog with a gargantuan appetite; Duponceau described him as an “Italian greyhound.”
*
Steuben loved and indulged Azor without reservation. A few years later, while he and one of his aides traveled by coach down a muddy New York road, Azor—who had been trotting alongside—took advantage of a pause in the journey to leap through the coach's open window and right onto the laps of the two men. The Baron and his aide were wearing brand-new uniforms that Steuben had just purchased at great expense only a couple of days before. Azor's huge paws tracked clods of mud all over the Baron's immaculate white breeches as he nestled himself in the man's lap.
Steuben was fussy about his appearance, but he just couldn't bring himself to be angry with his dog. Instead, he laughingly tugged on Azor's ears and called him a “damned rascal.”
⁴

The Baron and his impromptu staff set out from Paris on September 5, 1777. The journey, which lasted nineteen days, took the party southward along the valley of the Rhône to their destination, the ancient Mediterranean port of Marseilles. Their French benefactors made a halfhearted attempt to shroud Steuben's progress in secrecy, but to no avail. The Baron had purchased new uniforms for his staff—including fine black hats in the French bicorn style, replete with plumes and cockades—but not knowing the colors of American uniforms, he ordered coats made of brilliant scarlet cloth with blue facings. They were just too obvious to escape detection, and British agents in France were not fooled. Still, to obscure the purpose of his trip, the Baron assumed a pseudonym. He would be the Monsieur de Franck, agent of Roderigue Hortalez et Cie., bearing dispatches for the governor of French Martinique.

Waiting for them at Marseilles was the ship-rigged merchantman
Flamand
, bound for the West Indies with a cargo of wine, miscellaneous vegetables, and sulphur. But, like Steuben's assumed name, this was a guise. In reality,
Flamand
was the French naval frigate
L'Heureux
, 360 tons, carrying a formidable battery of twenty-eight guns and a huge cargo of contraband: muskets and carbines by the thousands, several dozen cannons and mortars, and hundreds of barrels of gunpowder.

On Friday, September 26, 1777,
Flamand
's crew cast off the mooring lines and made sail, the frigate passing between the two ancient forts that stood watch over the harbor entrance and into the open waters of the Mediterranean beyond. The Baron de Steuben was on his way to America.
⁵

 

E
VEN IN THE LAST QUARTER
of the eighteenth century, when transatlantic travel was almost routine, it took a hardy soul to brave the passage from Europe to North America. Steuben's two-month passage
was treacherous and very uncomfortable, and not without its moments of sheer terror.
Flamand
weathered two major storms during the crossing; there were also three fires aboard ship, always a potential horror, but even more so when the ship was practically packed to the gun-whales with explosives. There was the danger, too, of interception by a British warship off the American coast. Despite the falsified papers and the ship's reported destination, it would have been difficult to disguise the massive quantity of ordnance stockpiled in
Flamand
's hold. A run-in with a British ship of the line could have resulted in a very ugly incident.

But
Flamand
managed to evade these perils. Steuben himself seemed to be wholly unconcerned by the prospects. His mind focused on what lay ahead, and regardless of his trepidation at his uncertain prospects in America, his spirits were more buoyant than they had been in a very long time. Duponceau's boyish enthusiasm helped. He undertook to give voice lessons to the ship's captain, Pierre Landais of the French Royal Navy. Landais had determination but little talent, and his off-key caterwauling kept everyone amused—everyone, that is, except Azor, who took offense at Landais's vocal endeavors and howled piteously whenever the captain took it in his head to sing.
⁶

The Baron did not need diversion to occupy his time. He was on his way to a country and a people he knew absolutely nothing about, so for much of the voyage he tried to learn what he could. He studied intently the few books on America he had been able to scrape together before sailing from Marseilles, principally the Abbé Raynal's popular treatise on European settlements in the Americas. He also interviewed Captain Landais at length, for Landais had accompanied the explorer Louis-Antoine de Bougainville on his celebrated circumnavigation of the globe in 1766–69. When Steuben found the time, he tried to pick up a few words of spoken English from Duponceau, and with his secretary's help he composed a personal memoir chronicling his life in Europe.
⁷

The ship's lookouts finally sighted the rocky New England coastline at the very end of November. The ship dropped anchor in the calm seas just off Portsmouth, New Hampshire, on Monday, December 1,
1777. The day was unseasonably warm and sunny, adding to the usual sense of euphoria that came at the end of a long and arduous voyage. A landing party—including Duponceau, who sprang nimbly into the party's longboat as it cleared
Flamand
's davits—determined that the town was not in British hands, though the people they met ashore were initially a bit confused by Duponceau's red coat. Portsmouth's most prominent citizen, the merchant and former congressional delegate John Langdon, accompanied the group back to
Flamand
, and then escorted Steuben, his staff, and Landais to the town.

They were treated to a hero's welcome. Throngs of citizens came out to stare, gape-mouthed, at the oddly dressed Prussian and his French companions, and many of the locals followed the procession to John Langdon's opulent residence when the well-to-do merchant invited the foreigners to dine with him. “All the inhabitants of the place crowded together as if to look at a rhinoceros,” an amused Steuben reported to his old friend Daniel Marianus Frank.
⁸

At Langdon's dinner table, the Baron learned in detail of the progress of the rebellion thus far, and the news was encouraging. Although Philadelphia had fallen to the British, in upstate New York a truly grand thing had transpired. Maj. Gen. Horatio Gates and the Northern Army had defeated Maj. Gen. John Burgoyne in twin battles near Saratoga, capturing an entire British field army intact and throwing British strategy into disarray. Surely France would act now, and then victory would not be far off. The war, at any rate, was not yet over. Steuben could still make his mark.

After a stay of ten uneventful days in Portsmouth, Steuben and his party set out for Boston by carriage, where they arrived two days later. Newspapers across New England had already spread the word that a great Prussian hero had arrived on their shores, so as at Portsmouth the local elite turned out in force to meet their odd but distinguished visitor. The Baron made a favorable impression on the Bostonians. Boston had seen its share of foreigners and noblemen, but Steuben was different: not French and Catholic, but German and Protestant, an important distinction in a town of Boston's Puritan heritage. Unlike
many of the French officers who had passed through recently, Steuben was down to earth, affable, and gregarious. And he and his companions were just so novel. “Only fancy to yourself,” Duponceau recalled, “an old German Baron, with a large brilliant star on his breast, three French aides-de-camp and a large, spoiled Italian dog, [and] none of all that company could speak a word of English.”
⁹

Steuben was jobless and living on borrowed funds, but Boston's welcome did wonders for his deflated ego. He did not have to seek out John Hancock, as Langdon had suggested, for Hancock sought
him
out and fêted him as an honored guest. The former president of Congress hosted at least one dinner party in Steuben's honor, attended by all the luminaries of Boston Patriot society. Steuben bonded instantly with crusty Sam Adams, the two chatting amiably over military affairs and European politics. Adams, who liked neither Washington nor the idea of a professional army, was moved to write to Horatio Gates and his friends in Congress about this “Gentleman of great Merit.”
¹⁰

Duponceau had a grand time in Boston. As the only member of the Baron's staff who could speak English well, he could flirt with the local girls while Ponthière and Des Epiniers could do little more than point and grunt. In his enthusiasm, he committed a social gaffe or two—at John Hancock's house one evening he made the great mistake of addressing Sam Adams as “Mr. John Adams,” earning a gruff rebuke from the offended Adams—but this failed to discourage his high spirits.
¹¹

To Steuben, on the other hand, life in Boston quickly became tiresome and exasperating. He had been led to expect that he would be taken care of, but he was very much on his own. The Baron had been in America for less than a month and already he was in debt, “having brought no money with him,” as he complained, awkwardly and in the third person, to John Hancock, “upon the positive Assurance…that he should be supplied with every thing.” No one offered him a place to stay, or even helped him to find lodgings. The town was too expensive for his tastes; the people of Boston were, in his view, tightfisted and
unfriendly. He and his staff took up residence in two cramped rooms in a boarding house owned by one Mrs. Downe. The cost of firewood to heat the rooms amounted to some sixty dollars over three weeks, and the final bill for lodging there was far higher than the Baron was prepared to pay. It included additional charges for Azor and for the “trouble” the party had caused to their long-suffering hostess. Duponceau thought the charges were quite fair—the dog “ate as much as anyone of us”—yet they enraged Steuben, who threw his hands to his head and repeatedly exclaimed, “
Der Teufel!
” (“The devil!”), as he perused the itemized bill.
¹²