Being George Washington (24 page)

Congress has promised all those that continue in the service certain tracts of land, agreeable to their grades. Some States have done the same,
others have not, probably owing to their not having lands to give, but as all the military have equal merits so have they equal claims to such rewards, therefore, they ought all to be put on a footing by the united States.

This war must have shown to all, but to military men in particular the weakness of republicks, and the exertions of the army has been able to make by being under a proper head.

Some people have so connected the ideas of tyranny and monarchy as to find it very difficult to separate them, it may therefore be requisite to give the head of such a constitution as I propose, some title apparently more moderate, but if all other things were once adjusted I believe strong argument might be produced for admitting the title of king, which I conceive would be attended with some material advantages.

Republican bigots will certainly consider my opinions as heterodox, and the maintainer thereof as meriting fire and faggots, I have therefore hitherto kept them within my own breast. By freely communicating them to your Excellency I am persuaded I own no risk, & that, this disapproved of, I need not apprehend their ever being disclosed to my prejudice.

—Col. Nicola

Colonel Nicola had come to an obvious conclusion: Congress was the problem. They were too weak. They had no power. All they could do was beg from the states. A republic would
never
have adequate power to administer such a vast and unyielding group of colonies.

The solution Nicola had come to was equally as obvious, though exceedingly dangerous: a monarchy.

How could this man not see the truth? Didn’t he know what they were fighting for? Didn’t he understand the great experiment they were seeking to achieve? Couldn’t he see the bitter irony of his proposal: fight their British masters for no reason other than to implement another king?

All through the afternoon he suffered. His restlessness continued deep into the night. Finally, knowing that sleep would not come until he had addressed the colonel’s letter, he got up and penned a response to the man who had caused him such despair. His response was severe and uncompromising.

“No occurrence in the course of the war has given me more painful sensations than your information of there being such ideas existing in the army, … and [these] I must view with abhorrence and reprehend with severity. [Your ideas are] the greatest mischiefs that can befall my country.

“You could not have found a person to whom your schemes are more disagreeable. If you have any regard for your country, concern for yourself or your posterity, or respect for me … banish these thoughts from your mind.”

Calling for the messenger, General Washington sent his response back to the Colonel. He expected that the matter would be dropped and not brought up again—and he was right. Nicola accepted the response reluctantly, but with genuine humility.

Unfortunately, whether expressed openly or suppressed into the deepest regions of the souls, the sentiments that Nicola had put into writing—and that were shared among many—would not go away quite so easily.

March 15, 1783

General Washington’s Headquarters

Newburgh

Nearly a year after Washington had curtly denied Colonel Nicola’s plea, the condition of the army had not improved.

For the previous year, the resentment of the troops and officers had simmered.

In December 1782, the British fleet sailed out of New York harbor. Though it was an uncertain situation—there were still a significant number of British soldiers in the city—General Washington was confident that the winter would be as tranquil as the summer had been before. With hostilities winding down, he hoped to spend the winter at his home in Mount Vernon.

But the army didn’t disband. They realized that maintaining a united front was their best, and probably only, chance of pressuring Congress to follow through on their promises. It was a recipe for disaster: an angry and rebuffed army, their demands ignored and unmet, festering in a
winter camp with no more war to fight except against the men who had betrayed them through their false promises and lies.

The building anger of the army was too much to ignore. Washington knew he could not leave them to their own devices so, despite his yearning to return to Martha and Mount Vernon, he decided to quarter with his army for the winter in Newburgh. He believed that if he stayed with them, rode among them, talked with them every day, if they saw him and felt his presence, he could keep them under his control. He could stop their anger from boiling over into rage.

“The temper of the army is much soured,” he wrote in December, noting that they were “more irritable” than at any time since the war had began.

The general was very fearful of a mass mutiny, or worse. Would the army rise up against their government! Would they resort to the sword “to procure justice?” He knew they might. And they certainly had the power; he had helped forge them into an expert fighting force.

The thought was like a dagger to his heart.

Throughout the following months, Washington expressed his concerns in a series of letters. He was direct in his appraisal of the injustices with which his army had been treated—and in his appraisal that, without intervention, these injustices would soon turn into violence. To Congressman McHenry he wrote, “The patience, the fortitude, the long and great suffering of this army is unexampled in history. But there is an end to all things, and I fear we are very near to this.”

On the long winter nights, he often had to wonder: What shame is about to fall upon the colonies! Is the great experiment of building a republic based on freedom about to come to a disgraceful end, the army
not even waiting until the British army had withdrawn
before turning on their own government?

What will the British think! Indeed, the same question would sweep through all of Europe. Are the colonies about to shame themselves before the entire world?

Alexander Hamilton was even more pessimistic, feeling that an uprising was inevitable. Open revolt, he thought, was the only way the army could claim their just rewards. He also recognized that some within the army thought that Washington had failed them, unable to secure what
they had been promised from the Congress. In one particularly troubling exchange, he even encouraged General Washington not to stand against the army, but to “take the direction from them.”

Washington stewed over Hamilton’s letter for days, before rejecting it completely. He knew that if he and his army became the arbiters of justice, it would lead to a disaster.

Then, on March 10, he had received the final blow. Very discreetly, he was handed a covert memo that he was not supposed to see. A group of senior officers had scheduled a secret meeting. It was time, they had concluded, for the army to take things into their own hands. How many of his officers were involved, he did not know. But he feared that it was many. And maybe every single one of them.

The meeting had been scheduled to take place the very next day. It took all of Washington’s efforts, and all of the goodwill he’d built up over the years, to convince his men to postpone it. He needed time to prepare an answer equal to their complaints.

George Washington had always thought that Alexander Hamilton was being a bit dramatic about discord among the officers. But now, after seeing the truth spelled out on that awful circular, he knew that Hamilton was right.

After spending several hours thinking about what message to send back to Hamilton in Philadelphia, Washington retired to his office to put the words on paper.

Dear Sir,

When I wrote to you last we were in a state of tranquility, but after the arrival of a certain Gentleman, who shall be nameless at present, from Philadelphia, a storm very suddenly arose with unfavorable prognostics; which though diverted for a moment is not yet blown over, nor is it in my power to point to the issue.

There is something very mysterious in this business. It appears, reports have been propagated in Philadelphia, that dangerous combinations were forming in the Army; and this at a time when there was not a syllable of the kind in agitation in Camp.

From this, and a variety of other considerations, it is firmly believed, by some, the scheme was not only planned but also digested and matured in Philadelphia; but in my opinion shall be suspended till I have a better ground to found one on. The matter was managed with great art; for as soon as the Minds of the Officers were thought to be prepared for the transaction, the anonymous invitations and address to the Officers were put in circulation, through every state line in the army. I was obliged therefore, in order to arrest on the spot, the foot that stood wavering on a tremendous precipice; to prevent the Officers from being taken by surprise while the passions were all inflamed, and to rescue them from plunging themselves into a gulf of Civil horror from which there might be no receding, to issue the order of the 11th. This was done upon the principle that it is easier to divert from a wrong, and point to a right path, than it is to recall the hasty and fatal steps which have been already taken.

Let me beseech you therefore, my good Sir, to urge this matter earnestly, and without further delay. The situation of these Gentlemen I do verily believe, is distressing beyond description…. If any disastrous consequences should follow, by reason of their delinquency, that they must be answerable to God & their Country for the ineffable horrors which may be occasioned thereby.

I am Dear Sir Your Most Obedient Servant.

Washington sealed the letter and said a silent prayer. He would soon point his men to the right path he had written about—he just hoped they would listen.

March 15, 1783

General Washington’s Headquarters

Newburgh

It had been an awful few days.

After reading the letter announcing the secret meeting of his officers, Washington had tried to stay out of sight. He knew he had to talk to his men, but he didn’t yet know what to say.

The previous night had been sleepless, but productive. The speech he would give to his men had come to him, slowly at first, and then rapidly,
as though they were not his words at all. In the dim predawn light, he wrote them down on rough, off-colored paper with uneven edges and rounded corners. Slightly damp with sweat, the ink had smeared some of the words together. In his pocket, he had a letter from a member of the Congress who had pledged to support the army, further evidence of the argument he had to put forward on this day.

He was exhausted. His eyes were bleary and his chest was wire tight. But his mind was sharp and clear, focused as a beam of sunlight shining through a portal window. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind what the right thing to do was; the only question was whether his army would listen. Would the reputation he’d built up over years of sacrifice afford him the dignity of a true debate, or would his officers consider him to be a simple figurehead for the Congress whose words counted for nothing?

It was impossible to say. After all the suffering that they had lived through, he really didn’t know—but he was about to find out. The emergency meeting he had called was about to begin.

March 15, 1783

Temple of Honor

Newburgh

The air was cold and raw as George Washington stood outside a new building on the edges of the military camp. It was just before noon.

The place he was about to enter was called the Temple of Honor, and it had many uses: a dance hall, a meetinghouse, a place to gather and keep warm. Today he hoped to add another use to that list: a place to quell a fractious rebellion.

The building’s wooden exterior was rough and poorly finished, with brown mortar stuck between the logs and a slightly uneven door. Standing at the large double doors that covered the main entrance, he listened to the voices booming from inside. They were waiting for him, the officers and generals of his army, men he had spent years fighting to defend, both from within the halls of Congress and upon the battlefield. Listening, he identified the voices of some of his senior generals and most trusted aides.

Were there any who were with him?

His chest tightened.

He put his hand on the door pull and an ominous spirit seemed to emanate from out of thin air, whispering feelings of darkness and despair into his mind. He had wrestled with the demons of discouragement many times before, this feeling was not unfamiliar to him, but this time was different: far more deadly, far more personal.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled the wooden door back and stepped into the hall.

The group of men instantly turned toward him, feeling his presence as he entered the dimly lit room. A deep hush fell over them. No one spoke. No one moved. The smell of smoke and newly cut pine permeated the air. The small windows, thin and poorly made, bent the sunlight across the floor into broken prisms. A potbelly stove burned at the front of the hall and the air was stuffy.

The general took two steps inside, then stopped, his eyes moving around the room. The moment of decision had finally come. For all of them.

Washington noticed that none of the officers looked away from him. And why should they? They had nothing to be ashamed about. They had done nothing wrong! They weren’t plotting to destroy a nation. They weren’t fighting to grab power or great riches. They weren’t fighting out of maliciousness or pride or for any of the other reasons that evil men might fight. The only thing that they wanted was for the promises that had been made to them to be kept.