Harry, who had always been proud of his popularity, was still sensitive to his public image. The rational, calm arguments presented in the Virginia and Kentucky Resolutions might or might not have intrigued him under other circumstances. But he was under personal attack, and knew only one way to fight back — personally. He was the cavalryman who had been unfairly attacked by the enemy, and he wanted to charge at his foes, saber in hand.
The best way to deal with a malicious opposition that spread lies about him, he decided, was in the political arena. He hadn’t yet been called to active duty in the Army, and there were rumors that there would be a quiet diplomatic settlement of the dispute with France, the Dutch having offered their services as intermediaries. Therefore he decided to run for a seat in the United States House of Representatives, even though friends warned him that the electoral tide everywhere was running strongly in favor of the Jeffersonians.
He ignored the pleas of the well-wishers. The mud of libel had spattered his reputation, his integrity had been questioned, and the more hopeless his cause appeared, the more convinced he became that his only response to his detractors would be to present his case to the voters. The war clouds were dissipating rapidly, but his own problem remained.
Early in 1799, acting against the pleas of everyone who knew him, he began a long campaign in the five counties that comprised his Congressional district, Westmoreland, Richmond, Lancaster, King George, and Northumberland. Reactions were mixed. Men who had served under him in the war and in the Whiskey Rebellion — and there were many of them — had already dismissed the accusations of the Republican-Democratic press as nonsense. Ardent Jeffersonians had made up their minds that he was a potential tyrant, and jeered at him when he rode through the streets of small towns.
Harry waged his campaign with the same ferocity he had demonstrated in his fight against the British. He was tireless, refused to let himself become discouraged and struck two blows for every one aimed at him. Between early February and Election Day, April 24, he spent no more than five or six nights under his own roof at Stratford.
John Marshall, who was also running for Congress as a Federalist, was having an equally difficult time. But his cause was helped immeasurably when old Patrick Henry, who was one of his constituents, wrote a public letter praising Marshall lavishly. Henry had lost none of his powers of analysis, and saw what others would not realize until many years later, that the Virginia and Kentucky Resolutions encouraged the states to defy the national government and, in Henry’s words, “would, if logically applied, lead to the dissolution of the Union.” Jefferson did not recognize his error until long after he had served two terms as President.
John Marshall’s constituents were persuaded by the Henry logic — and by the still-potent force of his popularity. If he thought John Marshall should be elected, that settled the matter. The Republican-Democrats were willing to concede Marshall his seat in the House of Representatives.
Harry Lee’s position was far different. A hard core of his supporters was balanced by an equally determined band of his foes, but most voters seemed undecided, and no one was willing to predict the outcome.
April 24 dawned clear and bright in Virginia, which was fortunate, as there was only one polling place in the entire district, and many men had to ride long distances in order to cast their open ballots. The electorate was composed of those who owned at least one hundred acres of land in the district and made their homes there.
By the standards of later times, the setting was bizarre. An election board composed of five judges sat in the open, each recording the returns, and each voter was required to state his preference aloud. As the day was long, the judges relieved their thirst from time to time with small beer or porter.
Men who had come to vote made a holiday of the occasion, and gathered in two groups, Harry’s adherents on one side of the judges, and the followers of his opponent, a physician named Jones, on the other. They, too, developed a need to soothe their palates occasionally, particularly as they cheered each time a ballot was cast in favor of the candidate of their choice. Barrels of potent Virginia whiskey had been provided by thoughtful friends of the candidates, along with sizzling short ribs of venison, sugar-cured ham, smoked eel, raw oysters, and other delicacies. Those who had not yet made up their minds were courted by both sides with persuasion, drink and food, and inevitably fist-fights broke out between the partisans of Lee and Jones. As there was a strict Virginia law prohibiting brawling, dueling or knife-play within sight of the polls, men who were either sober or fairly sober usually managed to separate the combatants before too much damage had been done.
By early afternoon the followers of both candidates, who had been keeping a close count, knew that neither had yet achieved a decisive advantage, although Jones held a slight lead. Most men who had reached the polling place had not yet voted. Harry’s friends sent a messenger to Stratford to tell him the situation was far from promising.
A particularly unpleasant argument was stifled when an unusually tall, lean gentleman wearing expensive clothes and a powdered wig rode alone to the polling place, dismounted and nodded absently at several acquaintances. Men fell silent and pressed forward to hear the choice of the district’s most distinguished citizen.
A verbatim account of what was said was recorded by several of those present, among them George Lee, who was slightly miffed because the elderly gentleman hadn’t seen fit to raise his hat to him.
The chairman of the election board was required to pretend he didn’t recognize the voter, and asked, “Your name, sir?”
“George Washington.”
“Your occupation?” George Lee wrote that there was a silly expression on the chairman’s face.
“Planter.”
“Your home, sir?”
“Mount Vernon.”
Most voters were required to show proof they owned at least one hundred acres in the district and lived on the property, but the chairman of the election board obviously felt he had done his duty, and had no desire to embarrass himself further. “Your vote, sir?”
Major General Washington, the nation’s first President, replied in a parade-ground roar, “I cast my vote for Major General Henry Lee of Stratford.”
Ignoring the roars of the Lee camp, he doffed his hat to the judges and walked back to his horse, ignoring several outstretched hands. A half-dozen men offered to help him, but he waved them away courteously, climbed into the saddle unaided and started off for home, looking neither to the right nor left.
Harry’s friends were deliriously happy. It was obvious to all but the most rabid Republican-Democrats, who had voted earlier in the day, that Washington would not cast his ballot for someone he believed capable of conspiring against the Republic and establishing a monarchy in the United States.
The undecided, fortified by Washington’s views and Harry’s whiskey, began to move forward in a long, steady line.
At sundown the election judges retired to the nearby courthouse to compare their tallies, and a short time later the chairman reappeared to notify the crowd that Harry had won. Some days would pass before it would become known that in all of the United States, Harry Lee and John Marshall were the only Federalists elected to Congress from districts previously held by the opposition. Harry and Marshall were destined to be marked men in the House of Representatives.
XVII: THE HON. GENTLEMAN FROM VIRGINIA
Anne Lee accompanied the Congressman-elect to Philadelphia, leaving the children at Stratford. She would have preferred to take them with her, although it was contrary to the custom of the time in well-bred families, but a lack of appropriate living quarters to accommodate two growing youngsters, a baby and the servants needed to look after them made it impossible for her to indulge her wishes.
The Lees were fortunate. They reached the capital on December 8, 1799, three days before the new Congress was scheduled to convene, and lodged at an inn. The first business at hand in the overcrowded city was that of finding a
ppropriate, more permanent quarters, and after a search of only a few hours they were able to rent a small, tidy house that was, nevertheless, large enough to accommodate them and the John Marshalls.
The two freshmen members of the House presented their credentials on the opening day of the session, December 11, and took the oath of office. Harry, who had no intention of remaining silent and listening to his elders, made a point of speaking a few words that same day. On December 16 he made a speech on the need to overhaul the militia of the states, and even though the Federalists had lost their majority, he impressed his colleagues sufficiently to be made chairman of a committee to draw up uniform regulations for the militia of the various states. In less than a week he had established himself as a man of consequence in the House.
Two days later tragedy struck. Harry was walking from his rented house to the halls of Congress when he saw small groups of glum people gathering in the streets and muttering in low voices. He was stunned by their news: George Washington was dead. Unable to accept the shock, he verified it when he reached the House. Weeping openly and without shame, he returned home and spent the morning alone, grieving for his mentor and lifelong friend.
That afternoon he sprang into action. The Republican-Democrats now controlled Congress, and he was afraid they might be moved by partisan considerations to refuse America’s greatest citizen the posthumous honors he deserved. First, Harry wrote a simple resolution for the consideration of Congress, and in his sorrow it is doubtful that he knew some of his words would achieve an immortality outlasting his own reputation. He wrote:
The House of Representatives of the United States, having received intelligence of the death of their highly-valued fellow-citizen, George Washington, General of the Armies of the United States, and sharing the universal grief this event must produce, unanimously resolve:
That this House will wait on the President of the United States, in condolence of this national calamity.
That the Speaker’s chair be shrouded with black, and that the members and officers of the House wear mourning during the session.
That a joint committee of both houses be appointed to report measures suitable to the occasion, and expressive of the profound sorrow with which Congress is penetrated on the loss of a citizen, first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.
By the time Harry reached the House he found that Congress, acting on a motion of Marshall’s, had already adjourned for the day. The two Virginians conferred briefly, Marshall readily agreeing to second Harry’s resolution, and then they went home together. That night Harry, who had eaten nothing since breakfast, was unable to touch his dinner, and Anne was afraid he might become ill.
The next morning, when the House reconvened, Harry was recognized by the Speaker and tried to present his resolution, but emotion overwhelmed him, and Marshall had to read it for him. His fears proved groundless, and Republican-Democrats as well as Federalists voted unanimously in its favor.
Later in the day Harry recovered sufficiently to present several other resolutions. In one he proposed a state funeral for the late President, and again the House voted unanimously in favor of the measure. The government had bought a large tract of land on the Potomac River, where it was planned to build a new national capital to be called Washington City, and Harry further proposed that a marble monument be erected there to “commemorate the great events of General Washington’s military and political life.” Before resuming his seat he begged his colleagues to cast aside all political prejudices so there would be no blemish cast by Congress on the memory of a great man.
The House obliged him by passing the resolution, and not one vote was recorded against it. This near-miracle was neither a tribute to Harry’s skill as an orator nor a desire on the part of many Republican-Democrats to forget partisan considerations. They held Washington to blame for numerous Federalist “excesses,” but didn’t want to antagonize voters at home who might look with disfavor on their attempts to discredit the most renowned American of his era.
That evening a delegation from both Houses called on Harry at his rented home, its numbers including Speaker Theodore Sedgwick and two senators representing Vice-President Jefferson, who thought it indelicate to appear in person because of his strained relations with Congressman Lee. Everyone in the government recognized the special nature of the long friendship that had bound Harry to President Washington, and it was the unanimous wish of the legislative branch that he deliver the funeral oration.
The honor, Harry wrote to his brother Charles, was the greatest and most sorrowful ever conferred on him. He worked long and hard on the address, and the memorial service was held soon after Christmas in Philadelphia’s German Lutheran Church, one of the largest auditoriums in the city. President Adams and his Cabinet attended, as did the Justices of the Supreme Court, the members of the Senate and House, a large number of high-ranking military officers and the ministers of foreign governments.
The eulogy was as long as most speeches made in an age when men did not stint on words, and Harry spoke for more than two and a half hours. At his climax he repeated the phrase he had composed in his initial grief, saying, “First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen, he was second to none in the humble and endearing scenes of private life; uniform, dignified and commanding, his example was as edifying to all around him as were the effects of that example lasting.” Immediately after the service Harry and Anne made a trip home for the purpose of paying a condolence call on Mrs. Washington, who had not felt up to the ordeal of traveling to Philadelphia. There is no record of what was said in private, but Harry presented her with a gold-bound copy of the eulogy, written in his own hand.
After spending a few days at Stratford to see their children, the Lees returned to Philadelphia, and there Harry was gratified to learn that Congress had ordered his eulogy printed, at government expense, in pamphlet form. Citizens by the thousands in all parts of the country were requesting copies.
The bi-partisan spirit of mourning lasted only until mid-January, at which time the Republican-Democratic majority in the House refused to appropriate funds for the marble memorial to the late President. Harry was not surprised, and plunged into battle.
On the same day the Jeffersonians introduced a bill into the lower chamber to reduce the size of the standing Army, and Representative Albert Gallatin, who would later show a genius for handling the nation’s finances as Secretary of the Treasury, but who knew very little about military affairs, argued that the militia of the various states were competent to replace the professional soldiers.
Harry, who still held his commission as a major general, was shocked, incredulous, and wildly angry. In speech after eloquent speech he led the fight for the maintenance of a strong Regular Army, citing his own experiences and those of other Continental officers with militia during the war.
It was obvious that he knew what he was talking about, and the House, including men too young to have fought in the Revolution, listened to him with respect and interest. But his arguments made no deep impression on the Republican-Democrats, who contended that the conclusion of a new treaty of understanding with France would make an Army unnecessary, as the United States would have no enemies. Harry believed otherwise, and declared that friendship with France would create new friction with Great Britain.
Others rallied to him, including Republican-Democrats with long memories of militia failures, and only a token cut was made in the military budget. Harry had won a major legislative battle, and Jefferson paid him the compliment of referring to him as “dangerous, too eloquent for his own or the nation’s good.”
In the main Harry voted with the Federalists, but was always his own master, and when he thought it in the best interests of the country he sided with the Republican-Democrats. Perhaps the most striking example of his independent attitude was exemplified by the position he took when the Administration worked out a new commercial treaty with France. The Federali
sts, trying to block the measure, submitted a bill prohibiting all trade with France, but Harry worked hard against them.
Trade, he declared in an impassioned speech on the floor of the House, was a necessary prelude to continuing friendly relations between any two countries, and honorable, peaceful commerce was always preferable to the destructive disasters of war. He influenced a number of fence-sitters, and in an odd coalition, the Adams moderates, supported by the Republican-Democrats, saved the commercial treaty.
Anne Lee went home to Stratford to have another baby, an experience she would repeat on three more occasions in the years to come, and Harry remained alone in Philadelphia. During this period he spent one of the most unsatisfactory and embarrassing evenings of his life. President Adams invited him to dinner, and one other guest was present, Vice-President Jefferson. Either the President didn’t know that Harry or Jefferson weren’t on more than the most distant speaking terms, or didn’t care.
The two antagonists were civil to each other, but the atmosphere remained strained all evening. The principal subject of discussion was politics, and it dawned on Harry that Adams, who expected to be elected to a second term, didn’t realize that Jefferson had his own eye on the nation’s highest executive post. The Vice-President was the first to leave, and Harry, thinking he was doing the President a favor, mentioned what was common gossip in the halls of Congress.
John Adams was an efficient, coldly shy man incapable of making close friends or building a personal following. According to a long letter Harry wrote to his brother Charles the following day, the President was shocked by the disclosure, refused to believe that Jefferson would not support him in his bid for a second term and lectured his guest sternly. Their parting was formal, and Harry did not again receive an invitation from Adams, who was to discover within a few months that Jefferson had ambitions of his own.
Light-Horse Harry: A Biography of Washington’s Great Cavalryman, General Henry Lee (Heroes and Villains from American History) Page 25