Valley Forge.

On this date, in 1777, General George Washington led his troops into Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, to camp for the winter.

The new book, Valley Forge, by Newt Gingrich and William R. Forstchen is a narrative of perseverance, leadership, and faith.

An excerpt ...

General Anthony Wayne turned in his saddle. The 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 videttes 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 had caused him to pull back two miles during the day.

He had not slept in two days, constantly riding out to check the picket lines, to try and look for an opening that he could push in to, take some prisoners and gain intelligence. His men were exhausted as well 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, three of them. . .from the sharp snap sounding more like rifle fire rather than the heavier duller boom of musketry.

He looked at his staff repeating the question.

"What is that?"

No one spoke.

And then more shots, distant, echoing. . . .and then 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 towards his main encampment.

"Oh God! God!" Allen gasped, trying to back up, jerking his sword back and out of the guts of the man he had just impaled.


He was a veteran of half a dozen skirmishes and two major battles, but until this moment he never really known if he had killed a man. This time the evidence was before him, so close that the convulsive screams of his victim, the blood vomiting up, splashed into Allen's face.

He had stormed into the rebel camp at the front of the charge, trying to keep pace with Andre. And then this man, this man he was killing, came bolting out of a wigwam and all but thrust himself straight onto Allen's sword in his blind panic.

The man's eyes shone in the moonlight, wide, terrified, open mouth a black hole contorted by his screams.

With one hand he was clutching Allen's jacket, with the other a knife he was feebly waving about, one slash opening up a wound on Allen's left arm. While still clutching the hilt of his sword with his right hand Allen used his left to grasp the arm, was holding the blade. It was like trying to restrain a child, there was no strength in his enemy now, just a terrifying gasping as he started to sag, but the blade was still lodged in the man's stomach and try as he could, he could not extract it.

He was screaming as well, cursing, crying, oblivious to all that was around him until he saw Andre striding towards him, pistol raised and cocked.

The dying rebel saw him as well, and now tried to push back from Allen, whimpering, his cries like that of a girl which filled Allen with even more horror, wondering for a moment if indeed his victim was a woman caught up in this madness.

Andre pressed the pistol to the man's brow and pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening, the ball tearing off the top of the skull. The body collapsed and Andre put his foot on the man's chest, and grabbing hold of Allen's right wrist pulled back hard.

The blade slipped out with a grating noise of steel against bone.

"Never thrust upwards into the chest!" Andre shouted, "The blade usually gets stuck."

Allen stood there dumbstruck, looking down at the body.

"Come on!" Andre shouted, grabbing Allen by the shoulder, "keep moving or it will be you that gets it."

He had seen many a man die in this last year but this was the first time that he had looked into the eyes of someone he was killing, the first time blood had been coughed into his face and he felt weak-kneed, fearful he would faint or vomit.

"Come on!" Andre screamed, pushing him along.

A wigwam shelter set into the woods was ablaze. Men were inside, screaming in anguish, while at the entry half a dozen light infantrymen stood with bayonets poised, shouting for them to come out. One man burst out and the light infantry fell upon him stabbing and stabbing again. Another came out to the same terror.

Two more tried to fight their way out and were slaughtered in turn.

"For God's sake" Allen screamed "Prisoners."

His cry was ignored as the light infantry stood ready, taunting the men burning inside to come out.

"Stop them!" Allen cried and he started to run over but was grabbed by Andre.

"You can't stop it!" Andre shouted. "Their blood is up! You can't stop it."

Allen, dumbfounded, looked about as dozens of wigwams burned, and at nearly every one, men were fighting with terrible desperation to escape.

All was mad confusion, light infantry, dragoons, a solid line of the Black Watch swarming into the encampment, while hundreds of rebels ran in every direction. Here and there fragments of companies and regiments tried to rally, one even managing to fire off a ragged volley and then was swarmed under.

Gingrich discusses the lessons of Valley Forge on C-SPAN ...


I was given Valley Forge as a gift by one of my students and I highly recommend it.

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