Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Read Online Free

the open field. The clouds parted again, illuminating a low rise ahead. It was the perfect location for forward pickets to be in position. Grey caught glimpses of the dozen or so mounted dragoons, crouched low in their saddles, cresting the rise.
    And then the darkness was cut by the flash of a musket—a snap of light followed a second later by two more, and the crack of rifle fire echoed across the field.
    “In on them, my lads!” Grey roared. “In and after them!”
    “If this is a trap…,” Andre repeated, glaring at the blacksmith who stood stock-still and terrified.
    The column behind them broke into an exhilarating run. Allen turned back and saw the glint of leveled bayonets and a wall of men charging toward them.
    “Come on,” Allen cried. He dared to lay a hand on a superior officer, and push him forward.
    André hesitated for only an instant, his sword poised as if to stab the blacksmith, but then turned to join the charge.
    “You, for God’s sake, lie down!” Allen cried, shoving the blacksmith forward. “Just lie down and claim later…”
    He didn’t have time to explain further or to offer advice for this poor soul, who, if found out, would likely find himself at the end of a rope if the rebels won, and at the end of a rope as well if he had played false to the Crown.
    The man collapsed, almost as if shot, and lay on the ground quivering. Allen felt a measure of pity as he left the man behind, racing to keep ahead of the wall of bayonets. Reaching the low crest, he saw the bodies of the unfortunate advance pickets; their campfire, dug into the ground in an attempt at concealment, was still glowing hot. Several of the light infantry skirmishers were bayoneting the bodies, one still alive and shrieking for mercy.
    The column reached the top of the hill and began to spread out as ordered. From this position, the men had an unobstructed view of the enemy encampment directly ahead, along the edge of the woods. The men sprang to their feet in confusion, clearly silhouetted by the flames of their campfires. As ifwith one voice, the advancing column, let loose with wild shouts of battle lust. The sharp battle cries of the Black Watch were terrifying, even to Allen.
    The charge swept straight into the rebel camp and the slaughter began.
    “My God, what is that?”
    General Anthony Wayne turned in his saddle. Three shots had come from his right. Throughout the night and the day before, rumors had inundated him that an enemy column was nearby. Repeatedly he had tried to push scouts and mounted vedettes forward, only to have them driven back in by the damned British light infantry.
    It had been a bitter week since the disaster at Brandywine, as various parts of the army attempted to hold the approaches to Philadelphia. His own position was to hold the advanced position on the road through Paoli and await “developments.” Caution demanded him to pull back two miles during the day.
    He had not slept in two days, constantly riding out to check the picket lines. He was looking for an opening he could push into—take some prisoners and gain intelligence. His men were exhausted from the battle and the frustrating days of retreat, maneuver, and then falling back yet again.
    Most of his command were encamped forward of the Paoli Tavern, his headquarters, while even now he moved with a small column along the flank, responding to rumors of an impending attack from that direction.
    The shots sounded more like rifle fire than the heavier, duller boom of musketry.
    He looked imploringly at his staff, repeating the question.
    “What is that?”
    No one spoke.
    And then more shots sliced the black night, and, only seconds later, a nerve-rending cheer, more like a shrieking—the distinctive cry of the Black Watch resounded.
    “Merciful God!” was all he could gasp, as he savagely reined his horse about and raced back toward his main encampment.
     
    “Oh God! God!” Allen gasped, trying to back up, jerking his sword